The Indelible Mark
by Aeschylus Rex
Summary: AU - The prophecy has been delivered, the dark forces are mobilizing, and now, with time running out, veteran slayer, Faith Lehane, must prepare a scared, hunted, civilian woman to accept her new calling.
1. Prologue

_6.1.15 - __Hello! Thanks for reading The Indelible Mark. I can't promise regular updates, but I'm really glad you're here. I promise to make this story everything it can be and more. You're all awesome. I look forward to hearing from you. _

_Peace, _

_-Rex_

* * *

**Prologue**

_June 13 - Sunnydale, California_

Buffy Summers had always admired the freedom and bold autonomy of adults. She had always longed to be the master of her own apartment, her own bank account, slave to no curfew but her own, to have the luxury to go where she wanted, and do what she willed, with full control of her own trajectory. Independence had forever been a goal just slightly out of reach. Even in college, her summer jobs had paid paltry wages and she had been forced to rely on her parents to prop up her shaky, student finances. It had been, in a word, humiliating. All she had ever wanted was to be self reliant, to pay her own bills and take pride in it. Four years in school had passed quickly, however, and, now that she was standing at that cliff peering over, toes gripping the edge, all she wanted was time.

It was graduation day on a hot June morning in Sunnydale, California. Buffy stood in line with the rest of her classmates, waiting for her name to be called. She had been chewing on her lip for the better part of an hour, holding whispered conversations intermittently with the girls behind her, and she had worn off all of the expensive lip gloss that she had purchased for the occasion. The dark, polyester robe was sticking to her neck and shoulders, and no amount of furtive readjusting had made her standard-issue ceremonial gown more comfortable. Out in the audience, the parents and guests had long since converted the programs into makeshift fans, and the stands rippled with flashes of white as hundreds of members fanned themselves simultaneously. Beads of sweat trickled down her back into the waistband of her floral-print dress, and the blonde tresses that she had spent an hour curling were plastered to her forehead beneath the tight, square cap. Even her mascara was getting sticky, reminding her, yet again, that she had decided _not_ to get the waterproof brand. She brushed the tassel out of her face for the 11th time that hour, shuffling forward toward the stage. Not long now, only a few more names to go. She took a deep breath to calm her fluttering nerves, wiggling her toes in her black, heeled sandals to restore some circulation to the area. She hadn't survived four years of growing pains just to get up on stage and trip in front of a thousand people.

The line continued to move. Buffy approached the makeshift stage, erected in the university's largest courtyard, surrounded by its oldest buildings. Her heart thumped wildly. This was it. She tried not to clench her teeth as the boy in front of her was called.

"Daniel Martin Sullivan!"

Buffy stepped up and handed her card to the reader, an elderly woman in a grey business suit who was waiting for her at the podium. Ahead of her, Daniel tromped across the creaky stage, pausing to shake the hand of the Dean. A woman in full academic dress, positioned discreetly behind the podium, tapped her elbow and whispered in her ear.

"Remember to turn and smile for the photographer after you shake Dr. Arrevalo's hand."

Buffy swallowed. She couldn't even nod. The reader turned to her and smiled.

"Buffy Anne Summers!"

Her heart leapt into her throat. A loud cheer erupted from a middle row on the left side, and she could hear her relatives clear as day, chanting her name. She didn't even mind that Dawn had brought an air horn. Her face cracked open into a brilliant smile, and she mounted the stairs like an Oscar winner on the red carpet, legs barely wobbling in her precarious choice of heels. She shook hands with the Dean, and accepted her degree from the President, remembering at the very last minute to turn and smile for the photographer below the stage. The cheers started up once again as she descended the stairs on the other side. Her heart was still racing, but her nerves waned as a tidal wave of relief washed over her. No more midterms or finals ever again. No more stern professors or papers or lectures. It should have been a sense of hard-earned victory flooding her tear ducts, but her smile was wistful as she filed along with the rest of her classmates toward their seats.

She didn't see what happened next, she only heard the change in pitch as an unnatural silence fell over the crowd. Someone was shouting in the stands. The voice was harsh and loud, slicing through the joyful exuberance of families cheering on their loved ones. Buffy turned and frowned as her gaze landed on a man, tall and lanky with bleached hair, pale skin, and a black, leather trenchcoat, standing over everyone in the middle of the courtyard, his arm raised toward the stage. He looked comically out of place.

The professor at the podium stopped reading mid-card, and a confused muttering swelled up from the crowd as all eyes turned toward the man in the center aisle. Out of the corner of her eye Buffy noticed figures in navy blue hurrying toward the source of the disturbance, hired security with radios and dark sunglasses. Her feet slowed as she squinted through the sun, struggling to catch a better view of the commotion.

"What is he saying?" she wondered, addressing no one in particular.

Three shots rang out in crisp succession, and the stunned silence turned to panicked screams as the president and the dean crumpled onto the stage floor. The crowd roared, as everywhere, all at once, people scrambled to their feet, grabbing their loved ones, attempting to flee the shooter. More gunfire rang out, but she could no longer see the man with the blonde hair over the heads of frantic spectators. She was rooted to the spot, eyes wide, mouth agape.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Buffy, c'mon!"

It was Daniel Sullivan, the guy ahead of her, grabbing her roughly by the arm, dragging her away. She didn't understand. What was going on? Why was this happening? Where was her family?

Her family…!

"DAWN!" She screamed at the top of her lungs as Daniel caged her in his arms. "DAWN!"

People were sprinting in all directions, stumbling out of the stands, plowing through chairs and decorations, pushing and shoving, tripping over each other in a chaotic stampede as they herded fled the area. It was a nightmare, a cacophony of shrieks and indiscernible yelling, hoards of terrified people everywhere moving in a great wave away from the stage. And somewhere in the background, more gunshots rang out.

"Shit! Buffy, holy shit! We have to go!"

He yanked on her arm, determined to save her, but she was still frantically scanning passing faces for her family members, only vaguely aware that she was screaming at the top of her lungs as she slowly, but surely, lost the tug-of-war. They were roughly knocked about and thoroughly bruised by the time Daniel had successfully dragged her to the edge of the square. It was, unfortunately, as far as they got before a large woman in a black dress collided with Buffy, knocking the blue graduation cap clean off her head. The heel of her shoe snapped and she fell to the ground, twisting her leg awkwardly to one side as she landed hard on her ankle. Daniel dropped to the deck and wrapped himself around her like a human shield. The pain came on hard and fast, shooting up her spine. She groaned and shuddered.

"Shit, can you stand?" Daniel turned his body into the oncoming mob, absorbing blows from shoes and kneecaps as she struggled to find her breath.

"My ankle…" Her chest heaved. "I think it's broken!"

He reached down to touch it, probing gingerly with broad fingers.

Expletives erupted from Buffy's mouth as he encountered a sensitive spot. "Shit, motherfucking bitch!"

He winced, brown eyes pained, and withdrew his hand.

"Fuck, it hurts!" Buffy moaned.

"Yeah, it's...it's not good."

She reached up and gripped the front of his robes, whimpering pitifully.

"Sorry." Daniel tensed as he absorbed a glancing blow from a stumbling man in a three-piece suit. "We can't stay here," he said, voice gruff and low. "I'm gonna try and carry you, you're not that-"

His words were interrupted by a deafening shout from the square behind them.

"WHERE IS THE SLAYER?!"

A terrifying, blood-curdling voice screeched out on the PA system and a hush fell over the frenzied crowd. Buffy looked up in time to see the pale face of the blonde man, standing victoriously on an overturned podium in the center of the stage, microphone in hand. He had ripped it clean out of its fixture.

"What's he talking about?" Buffy asked.

Daniel's jaw hung open, dumbstruck, eyes nearly bulging out of his head as he took in the scene onstage. There were more of them. Large men, clad in black coats and balaclavas, clambering over bodies and discarded chairs as they emerged from the wreckage. It wasn't a rogue gunman, Buffy realized, it was a full scale attack.

"WHERE ARE YOU, LITTLE SLAYER? YOU AREN'T REALLY TRYING TO HIDE FROM ME, ARE YOU? LOOK AT ALL THESE SCARED HUMANS! ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO LET THEM DIE LIKE THIS?" The man turned about around wildly, throwing his arms open wide as he addressed the terrified crowd. "COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE, SLAYER!"

"He- he has a British accent," she murmured, even more perplexed.

"This is insane," Daniel said, eyes wide. "This guy is out of his mind. We're getting the fuck out of here!"

In a single, swift movement, he looped one burly arm under Buffy's thighs and another around her back. He hoisted her up and hugged her against his chest, wobbling for a moment until he was steady on his feet.

"Hold on tight!"

Waves of pain rippled up outward from her injured ankle, but Daniel turned a deaf ear to her cries of agony.

"You can do if, Buff! Hang on!"

And she _was_ hanging on. She was hanging on for dear life. With a fractured ankle there was no way she could escape on her own. Daniel immediately lumbered forward, and as he turned away from the stage, she caught sight of the blonde man one last time, arms outstretched, directing his men toward the remaining stragglers like a conductor in front of a symphony.

Buffy shuddered and clung tighter to her classmate's neck.

"FIND HER!" The blonde attacker roared. "BRING HER TO ME!"

He threw down the microphone amid the rubble with an ear-piercing screech and leapt off the overturned podium. He landed like a cat, crouching low in a pair of tight, leather pants, whipping out what appeared to be new guns from a holster beneath his trenchcoat. Something dark flickered across his features, something twisted and gruesome, and she could have sworn she saw a small pair of horns emerging from his head. She screamed, and her nerves finally got the better of her. She pressed her face into Daniel's chest as he staggered around the corner of the library building. Neither of them said another word, and all Buffy heard from that point on were the sounds of panic and gunfire as her classmate bore her swiftly toward a makeshift barricade of emergency vehicles in the parking lot.

/ / /

Daniel drove her to the hospital because the ambulances were already taken, and he stayed until her father arrived, breathless, sweating bullets in his expensive suit. By then Buffy was going into shock, and lay quivering on her cot, flinching violently whenever she was touched. She saw nothing of discernable meaning, could not linger on faces, only bright lights and stark colors, and the disjointed sound of her father speaking frantically into his cell phone, urging someone to go somewhere, or come somewhere. Buffy tugged on her hair and felt something warm ooze over her fingers.

"She hit her head," the nurse was saying.

"-can't rule out a concussion."

"Traumatic experience."

They restrained her with strong arms, and changed her into a shapeless hospital gown. An IV was inserted into her wrist. She didn't see her mother arrive, but she heard her parents fighting, and Dawn crying softly beside her, holding tightly onto Buffy's hand. The nurse asked her questions, but she couldn't answer because her teeth were chattering. She pointed at her ankle, and they assessed the break, and sometime later, maybe hours, they were preparing to send her to surgery. The room was getting fuzzy, their voices were growing distant.

And then, all at once her vision cleared.

Her frantic heart slowed. The doctors and nurses around her seemed distant, like bright, colored shadows, but when she perceived a great, solemn figure standing at the end of her bed, he appeared more vividly real than even her own hands. He was three or four heads taller than a man, stripped to the waist, his skin ashen and charred. He bore great, sweeping wings of dirty feathers from bony shoulders, fluttering and shivering from some ethereal breeze. His face was hollowed, handsome, unearthly. His eyes were bluer than any she had ever seen, and they shimmered in his dark features like stars in the night sky. They drew her in until the voices around her, the alarms beeping had all but faded away, and when he opened his mouth to speak to her, she was enchanted by his gentle, lilting tone.

"_Behold! The ancient tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the end of six thousand years is no longer true, as I have heard from Hell,_" he said_, _bending over the bed to examine her.

She licked dry lips.

"_Buffy Summers,_" he hailed, _"shining beacon of your people. Long have I waited to reveal myself to you_."

"Who...are you?" she whispered, voice wavering.

"_Do not be afraid. I am not one who is sent, but one who comes freely_."

"W-wh-wh…" Buffy swallowed, and forced her chattering teeth to still. "W-why are you here?"

His blue eyes seemed depthless as they studied her. "_To give that which only I can give._" He paused. "_Alas, time is short, and I have only enough time to offer you this advice._" He seemed to take a breath, drawing himself up to his full height before continuing. "_It has been said that __the mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven__. I tell you, there are plans set in motion that will bring hardship to you and to all your people, and for their sake, you must carry with you a light into the darkness. Do not face the lords of hell without it, lest your mind be corrupted by hatred and despair."_

He paused, and Buffy was amazed to hear how captivating his speech was, how beautiful his quiet voice was. She ached to hear the sound once he had fallen silent again.

"Please," she begged, "say more."

"_There isn't time_," he replied, sadly.

"When will I see you again?"

"_My debt is great_. _I will return to you, little champion, when you need me. I am watching._"

The beautiful, burned creature then stretched his great length over Buffy's bed, and with blackened fingertips, tenderly drew her eyelids closed. She fell into a dark, enveloping sleep. And when she awoke, her foot and calf were set in a cast, and her memory of him was shrouded in the haze of dreams.

* * *

_A/N: So, that bit about making a hell of heaven and a heaven of hell? That's a Milton quote, in case you were wondering. _


	2. Old Familiar Faces

**1\. Old Familiar Faces **

_J__une 13 - Queens, New York_

The sun was just setting on a cozy, two bedroom apartment in Queens as Dr. Rupert Giles sat down to dinner. Elegant streaks of silver ran through his hair, wild where he had mussed it in the usual way, with a wandering hand while he was reading his books. He had dressed in his finest Sunday night attire, a pair of brown slacks and a white linen shirt, with short sleeves for the heat, a grudging acknowledgment of his fickle air conditioning unit. For a man of his age he was rather lean, no beer belly or paunch to speak of, very little sagging in the usual places, toned in a way that one wouldn't expect of the professorial type. There was an air about him as someone both harried and focused, who was likely to become engrossed and to forget the basic habits that kept a person decent. After all, there was plenty of conspicuous evidence to suggest this, a collection of forgotten coffee mugs set like gravestones upon any flat surface, large dusty shelves filled with disordered knick knacks, books, jars, even fossils and minerals recovered from exotic trips, a withered house plant that seemed in dire need of repotting, forgotten magazines splayed across the coffee table in front of the tv, spilling onto the carpet, and the occasional shirt or sock strewn across the furniture, peaking out from under the love seat. He ate alone most nights, and was, therefore, a creature of habit, humming quiet tunes to himself as he poured a glass of Burgundy. His kitchen table was something of a relic, rescued from an antique mall on Staten Island, and it was piled high with stacks of books, both contemporary and ancient, sacred and secular. He cleared himself a spot near the window, where he could admire the city, and arranged his cutlery the way he liked it.

He reached for the remote and switched on the TV, flipping to the evening news like he did every night at dinner. It was good to keep up with normal politics and events, if for no other reason than to remind himself who and what he fought so hard to protect. It was an old habit, begun when he was posted in Cleveland, and the situation was so dire that pictures of mangled corpses and bloody pentagrams surfaced in the papers, and even the lay public knew that something evil walked the streets of their grim city. Those times were past, and these ones were calm, but the compulsion remained, to make sure that the public remained blissfully unaware of the predators that stalked them. An advertisement for car insurance filled his quiet apartment with bubbly chatter for a moment. Rupert lifted his knife and cut into his pork chop. The first bite was succulent and tender. He licked his lips and reached for his wine, making briefest eye contact with the pigeons that roosted on his balcony. The watcher taunted them with a forkful of roasted meat.

"The old man can still cook, eh? Bloody jealous, you lot are."

He helped himself to another bite, and another, spearing a stalk of asparagus, dipping his French bread in oil and vinegar en route to his mouth. Nearly ten minutes passed like this and he had all but forgotten about the quiet murmuring on the tv screen when, suddenly, a familiar word caught his attention.

"-slayer…"

His fork stilled and dropped to the plate as he glanced up toward the screen. He couldn't be sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, but his heart skipped a beat, regardless. A shaky cell phone video was playing, and below that, the blue news banner read: "Terror at UC Sunnydale!" in white block letters. It took a moment to discern exactly what was happening. A panicked crowd of people was fleeing something, running in all directions, tripping over each other, scrambling against the walls of a uniform brick building. The camera rattled and shook as piercing screams carried over the distinct pop of gunfire. The people parted like minnows around a shark as a young man in the center of the frame tumbled to the ground. Rupert's eyes widened as, just behind him, the attacker stood with a raised kalashnikov, wearing a trenchcoat and familiar peroxide blonde hair combed back over a drawn, almost skeletal face. The watcher's knife clattered onto the table. He had seen that face before.

A blonde news anchor in a navy blue jacket and thick glasses appeared on the screen, glancing up from a stack of papers in her hand. "Breaking news tonight as details of the mass shooting in Sunnydale, California continue to trickle in. 26 people are confirmed dead so far, with 37 wounded, and the numbers are rising by the hour."

Rupert's chair screeched against the hardwood floor as he rushed into the kitchen to find his cell phone.

"Police say that this man, who appears in the video without a mask, led a band of nearly a dozen men into a graduation ceremony on the campus of the University of California at Sunnydale, and demanded to fight a person he called 'the slayer' before opening fire on the crowd…"

Giles nearly punched the numbers into his phone, cursing under his breath.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up…" He growled as the call went to voicemail, and turned back to the tv screen.

More footage was playing, this time a bird's eye view of the fire trucks and police cars assembled on the UC Sunnydale campus. The blonde anchor continued to listen in a small box in the corner of the screen as a man in an adjacent box, presumably some sort of expert, discussed the possibilities that this was a terrorist attack.

"You have reached the voicemail inbox of ...Faith Lehane. Please leave a message after the beep."

"It's me," Rupert ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it further, "we have a situation. Call me as soon as you get this."

He hung up the phone and dialed again.

/ / /

_June 13 - Boise, Idaho_

Faith sat alone in a biker bar off I-84, south of Boise. It was warm, stuffy, and gloomy in the low room, her dark, striking features alight in the artificial glow of neon signs and tv screens. Sunlight illuminated a swirling jet stream of old dust, light and golden, filtering past a single, high window against the far wall. Men in black and denim played pool around a pair of battered tables with equally battered sticks, the sound of their bickering and rude laughter nearly drowned out by the jukebox. Faith tapped out a rhythm on the polished wood with the silver coin pinched between her fingers. She had pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, and draped her camouflage jacket over the back of her chair, leaning languidly over bar with hunched shoulders and blank eyes as she followed the commotion on the nearest tv screen. She sipped from her beer and rolled the amber liquid across her tongue, swished it between her teeth, swallowed, and cringed. The last mouthful was always warm and flat. She set the bottle on the counter and motioned to the bartender for another. There had been a shift change sometime since her arrival, and the new guy was young, clean cut, and fair-skinned, unlike his leathery, road-worn clientele, rolling up in clouds of v-twin thunder and dust, ambling inside with ratty ponytails, faded ink, and leather. A single sleeve tattoo, with a colorful oriental pattern that she had been studying absently, disappeared up into the bartender's white, v-neck shirt, that and a pair of black disks in each ear the only evidence that he was a rider and not some clean cut college student trying to make a few bucks in between semesters.

"What'cha got?" He tossed the bar rag between his hands, checking his gaze somewhere just south of her lips as he dampened a sly grin.

Faith let her dark, impassive eyes wander a bit as she rotated the bottle, turning the label out to face him. He wasn't so bad. Honey colored hair cropped short on the sides and long on top, large brown eyes, a white smile with dimples. She sized him up. Strong shoulders, toned arms, the classic v-shaped torso. This guy had his pick on the weekends. She glanced up and found him watching her. Her eyes flicked back to the tv screen. Crunchy blues chords washed over them, and the guys at the corner table cheered.

"You have family in Southern California?" He reached down under the counter and brought up a chilled Redhook IPA.

"Nope."

He uncapped the bottle in a single, fluid motion and slid it across the bar to her. "That's probably a good thing."

"Hm?"

"The shooting. It looks bad."

He nodded at the monitor, and the for first time since she had sat down, Faith realized that she was watching the news. Was she that distracted? It had been a long week. She rubbed her eyes and reached for her drink.

"I hadn't heard."

"Just happened today." He had a pleasant voice. "Some crazy guys in leather busted into a college graduation ceremony and shot up the place." The bartender paused, considering her impassive expression. "But you'll probably hear all about it later, so I won't bore you."

Faith offered a wan smile.

He smiled back uncertainly. He wasn't cocky or sleazy, and that was both a rarity and a tragedy. She cocked her head to the side and stared into the dusty, glass ashtray in front of her, suddenly itching for a cigarette. When she reached for the pack that was always in the breast pocket of her jacket, however, she found it empty. She must've smoked them all. The trucker to her left had some on him. She knew it from the smell, percolating through his skin like a an old, moldering filter baking in the sun. That guy smoked at least a pack a day. He probably drank black coffee and listened to talk radio in the cab, too. Yeah, never mind.

The bartender caught her eye again and she resumed her furtive observation game. How long had it been? She counted the days in her head as he found excuses to stick around at her end of the bar, wiping down the sticky wood, polishing glasses, and then, rather desperately, rearranging the toothpicks and the lime wedges. A light smile threatened at the corners of her mouth. He was trying so hard to keep his eyes away, but they kept flicking up to her. It was cute. Faith chewed her lip. They had sent her a difficult job this time, and she liked it that way. It kept her busy, and busy kept her sane, but it was over, and she was restless. Nowhere important to be, nothing pressing to do. She preferred not to be listless and alone with her thoughts. It was time to get busy again.

Faith tossed out a lifeline. "So, when did you decide you wanted to grow up to be a bartender?"

He glanced up from his meticulous toothpick organizing. "Me?"

"You see any of us mixing drinks?" She nodded at the grizzled trucker two stools down and the 'leatherettes' perched at the opposite end.

"No, I guess not." He smirked, taking her acidity in stride. "I guess it just sorta fell in my lap."

"You mean you didn't look up at the stars as a kid and dream of making shitty margaritas?"

He snorted. "You don't even know. My margaritas are great."

"I bet."

"Can I make you one?"

"You buying?"

His smile grew. "On the house."

"Then, yeah, start impressing me already."

His smile expanded into a grin, and Faith congratulated herself. Nothing about her outfit or her demeanor screamed sex, but she was going to get what she wanted. Boys had great imaginations. He grabbed a fresh glass and a scoop of ice, and loaded it up with tequila, flipping the bottle over his shoulder to catch it one handed behind his back. Faith laughed, and he moved on to the triple sec, muscles rippling as he cycled through the ingredients.

"My buddy opened this bar," he said, gaze flicking up to her. "I was working at an office downtown and I was bored stupid. When he asked me to come help out, I jumped on it. I've been here a couple years now."

Faith accepted the drink. "What's your name?"

"Oscar."

"Seriously? Like Oscar the Grouch?"

He rolled his eyes. "You got it."

"Nice," Faith laughed to herself. "He was my favorite character." She pointed to his arm. "Does the tattoo mean anything?"

Oscar glanced at his arm. "It's a long story." He shrugged. "I like Japanese poetry a lot."

"Hm. How'd you hide it?"

"They weren't too strict about it unless I had meetings."

"Meetings, huh? What'd you do?"

"Finance."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. I worked at this medical consulting company. Got a job fresh out of college and made a lot of money pretending to do work in a cubicle all day, while secretly hating my life, and daydreaming about taking my bike out for a spin and just never coming back."

"Sounds shitty."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "it was."

Faith tentatively sampled the margarita and licked the salt off her lips. "This is good." She tried another sip, larger this time. "Seriously, it was worth the money."

Oscar laughed. "Appreciate it. What's your name?"

"If I tell you," Faith paused long enough to throw back the rest of the drink," you have to buy me another one of these." She set the glass down hard and the ice clinked against the sides.

The bartender quirked a brow, and a devilish smile curled his lips. It made him even more attractive. Faith could feel her body leaning forward, unconsciously, over the counter. If she was gonna do this, she was gonna get her buzz on first, because there was no way she could follow through on the promises her eyes were making with Robin's words in her head. She needed this. She _needed_ this. It wasn't fair the way he seemed to hang around, like a cloud of smoke in still, humid air. It wasn't fair how much she remembered. It wasn't fair.

Oscar mixed another cocktail at lightning speed and slid it across the bar just a little more eagerly than he probably would have liked, judging by the twinge of pink in his cheeks. She could hear his heart rate speeding up, hear the muscle pound harder.

"Try this," he said, a little breathlessly.

Faith accepted with a quirk of the lips. "What is it?"

"Tequila sunrise."

"You make a good tequila sunrise, too, I'm guessing."

He ran his hand through his hair, more that a little self consciously, and nodded.

Faith laughed and tasted the drink. It was strong and bright. Her mind was already made up, but she dallied a little, and let him sweat it out. People appreciated the things they worked for. She ran the tip of her tongue along the edge of the cold glass and set it aside, sucking her thumb between her lips to capture a bit of spilled citrus trailing toward her wrist.

"It's good," she purred.

His adam's apple bobbed.

"You have a break coming up?"

Oscar's eyes were dark, neck flushed, and ears pink as he turned his wrist and stared blankly at his watch. "I have a lunch break in an hour." He wiped his hands down the front of his white shirt with feigned nonchalance. "Do you…um."

Faith looked up through her lashes. "Do I?"

He again ran his hand nervously over the short, cropped hair at the back of his head. "I don't want to seem too forward or anything, but if you wanted to go somewhere to talk, alone, there's an office in the back."

"Oh, really?" Faith winked. "It's been a while since I've had a good talk."

The bartender cleared his throat, hiding a small shiver behind his fist.

"It's Faith, by the way."

With her preternatural eyesight, she watched goosebumps rise on his neck and offered him a predatory smile. Oh, yes, this felt good, familiar. The drunken rush of adrenaline. The heady sensations that only accompanied power and seduction. She was a creature in her element, winding the string around her finger, beckoning, twisting, tugging. Oscar was completely mesmerized, a moth fluttering into the heat of an open flame, and it took a swell of clamorous shouts from the table behind her to break his trance. He smiled apologetically and ambled away, rather stiffly, on less than steady legs to fill more pitchers, but his gaze never quite left her. Her confidence swelled like a balloon fit to burst, and she continued to toy with him, keeping her eyes fixed, casually, on the tv screen while he hovered around in the periphery, plying her with drinks.

By the time he had her alone, flinging her into the cramped little back office, slamming the door with his boot, flipping the lock with fumbling fingers and a curse of desperate impatience, Faith was nearly cackling with joy. She was soaked through and drunk on power and booze, and so ready to go that nothing short of an apocalypse could have stopped her. Poor Oscar would never be the same again. He picked her up and practically dropped her on the desk, scattering everything in her way, groaning all the time as he gripped her thighs and pulled her legs apart, pressing himself against her like this was the last fuck he would ever have. Faith nipped at him with teeth and fingernails, and sharp, urgent words. She pulled his hair until he moaned, until he started flailing, and office supplies were spilling onto the floor, papers fluttering around his feet.

A loud knock sounded at the door, and Faith only giggled as Oscar tore his mouth away from her neck to yell raggedly at the unwelcome intrusion. "Fuck off!"

"I need the order forms, dude!"

"I said FUCK OFF!"

And then he growled, and ripped off her shirt, probably actually ripped it, and Faith was gone with the rush. She tore the button off his jeans in some kind of delirious retaliation, snapped his belt in half, and pulled his mouth to hers before he could find it in him to be surprised.

/ / /

Faith left the bar an hour later, stalking out into the darkness like she was made for it, tugging her camouflage jacket on over a borrowed shirt as she fumbled in her pocket for her keys. The alcohol was ebbing quickly with her slayer metabolism, and it was time to get out. The crowd was still applauding and cheering behind her as a red-faced, frantic Oscar burst from the front doors, dodging congratulatory pats from the bouncers. Their laughs rang out behind him, shouting raunchy encouragements as he looked about wildly. His eyes scanned the dusty parking lot until he found her, leaning against a black Ducati, wavy, dark chocolate hair still tousled, catching the orange light from the street lamp overhead. He hurried across the lot, holding his jeans up with one hand, and a sharpie in the other.

"Wait!"

Faith glanced up from her phone, glowing as it returned to life.

"Wait!" He huffed and puffed as he caught up to her, resting a hand gingerly against the seat of her bike. "Wait."

Faith quirked a brow. "You can't have the shirt back."

He gaped at her, seeming to forget himself for a moment. "What? Oh...no, it's fine. I don't want it back." He swallowed a heavy breath and shook his head. "Sorry, that's not what I- I mean...can I at least get your number?"

The brunette smirked and reached out to touch his cheek. "You're cute."

Oscar smiled hopefully.

"But I'm just passing through."

His face crumbled like the Berlin Wall. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Um, do you think you'll ever pass through again, sometime?"

Faith felt a little bad. A little. Her smirk faded into an apologetic smile, and she leaned in to kiss him softly on the cheek.

"I don't think so, but, for what it's worth, you were great."

Oscar's tenuous smile peaked out like a flower from cracks in the concrete. "You were amazing."

"It was all those awesome drinks you made me." She winked, and glanced down at her blinking phone. "But I really have to go, my boss keeps calling."

"Okay," Oscar stepped back as she swept her leg over the seat of her Ducati and started the engine. "That's a rad bike, by the way," he said wistfully.

"She's my baby." Faith grinned, and pulled a matching black helmet over her head, flipping the visor up to give him one last wink. "See you around, Oscar."

She rolled off into the night, revving up and speeding onto the highway, blowing out of town much the same way she had blown into it. Oscar offered a small, half-hearted wave and turned, dejectedly, back toward the bar.

"Didn't know you had it in you, man!"

"She's a tight piece of ass!"

Oscar shook his head at the cackling bouncers and dragged himself back inside. "I didn't get her number, guys."

"That's rough, dude!"

"Sorry, man!"

Oscar just sighed and went off to find another belt.

/ / /

Rupert Giles' kind features contorted on the pixelated computer screen. The dim lighting in his Queens apartment accentuated the wrinkles worn into his face, making it look as though he had spent all four of his decades frowning into very complicated books. Which he had, and they were. It was very late in the evening, nearly 2am EST, and he had eschewed his normal wardrobe staples of a crisp, white Oxford shirt and tweed jacket for a simple undershirt and bathrobe. A bit of silver stubble had grown in along his jaw and around his mouth, lending him a disheveled look that was uncommon for him, but not unattractive.

"This is quite unusual. I feel as though I've missed a step somewhere." He bent down to read some notes scrawled in a leather-bound journal on his lap. "Last I heard you were investigating a malevolent coven of witches in rural Idaho. Why would a band of demons be looking for you in Southern California? You aren't currently staying there are you?"

"Haven't been back since we closed that super portal in Oakland."

He adjusted his round, wire glasses and squinted at the woman on his screen. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where you're staying now."

Faith clicked her tongue. "Nope."

"Your defiant behavior vexes us all, myself included."

"We made a deal." Faith's voice was light and dull as she picked at the ends of her tousled, brown hair. "I fight the bad guys when the Council calls, and everybody leaves me the fuck alone when I'm done. Besides, it's not like I lay around eating Doritos and playing video games in between. You should know that by now, G."

"Yes, well…" he cleared his throat. "I don't think I'll ever grow accustomed to your habit of dropping off the map. I'm sure you understand why it's unnerving to have my Slayer go AWOL."

She frowned and lowered her gaze into her hands, where she twirled a bulky, silver ring around her thumb. "I always answer when you call, don't I?"

"Of course," Giles' face betrayed his embarrassment, "and like a nervous parent, I can't help but wonder where you've gone, if you're alright, and all that soppy rubbish. Anyway," he cleared his throat, "let's get back to the task at hand, shall we?"

Faith fixed the bumbling Englishman with a dark little smile. "Please."

"Right then," he adjusted his glasses, as per usual, "why are a group of demons shooting up a university graduation ceremony in Southern California and demanding that you fight them?"

"I have no fucking idea."

"Well, does anyone else, besides yourself, obviously, know where you are?"

She shrugged. "Not that I know of. I don't exactly announce myself when I roll into a new town. Besides, anyone dumb enough to follow me would know full well that I'm no where near California."

"This is vexing." Mr. Giles leaned back in his armchair, rubbing his temples wearily. "We're missing something, aren't we? It's not adding up."

"Is it a diversion?"

"Possibly. From what, I do not know."

A loud crash from the room overhead drew the Faith's bored expression away from the video chat for a brief moment. The neighbors upstairs were going to owe the motel manager a lot of money by the sound of it. When she looked back at the screen, Giles was cleaning his glasses on the front of his bathrobe. She sighed heavily and pushed a curtain of tangled brown hair out of her face.

"Maybe we're getting too complicated with this."

"Beg your pardon?" Rupert Giles blinked away his weariness and redirected his gaze at the camera. "How do you mean?"

"Whenever something weird happens, everyone assumes it's the freakin' apocalypse, but half the time it's just a bunch of demons being stupid."

"That estimate might be a bit hi-"

"-Whatever. All I'm trying to say is, what if we're making this more complicated than it seems? What's the easiest explanation you can think of?"

"I don't see how this isn't already very complicated," the man muttered, shaking his head, "what with mass shootings being of a serious nature, regardless of our conjecturing. Are you suggesting that we use Ockham's razor?"

"Is that a weapon or something?"

"No, no," he waved a hand in front of his face, "it's a philosophical hypothesis."

Faith squinted at her computer screen. "A what?"

"William of Ockham hypothesized that when one is trying to solve a problem, the answer that seems most obvious, that is to say, the answer that has the fewest assumptions, is the correct choice."

"Okay…" She picked at her cuticles. "So, what's the most obvious answer you can think of?"

"Me?" Giles shook his head. "I suppose maybe they were just trying to cause trouble, trying to flush you out of hiding or something of that sort."

"Possibly."

"Or, they could have bad intel about your whereabouts, but that doesn't add up either. There is no way those demons, or whatever they are, would have blazed into a school waving automatic rifles if they weren't completely confident about the information they were working with. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen demons draw such blatant attention to their activities." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It seemed a tad overconfident, didn't it?"

"Possibly." Faith reached for a beer can that was just out of sight and took a shallow swig. "I could see that. Or we were right the first time and they were trying to draw me out."

"Trying to lure you there," Giles murmured thoughtfully.

"Sure." She shrugged.

"Whatever it is, I don't like it. This is highly unusual demon behavior."

"You're not gonna send me to California again are you?" Faith glared at him. "I hate that place."

"No, of course not. It could be trap. You may arrive only to find them waiting for you."

"I've got a better idea. How 'bout I put my ear to the ground, see what the underworld is gossiping about?"

Giles nodded, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. "Alright, but you have to check in every couple days. And make sure to keep me posted on your findings."

"Of course, G. Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all."

"Alright, I'll call you Tuesday?"

"Sure, sure. Oh, and Faith?"

"Yeah?"

"Please be careful."


	3. Under the Tucson Sun

**2\. Under the Tucson Sun **

_June 16 - Outside Tucson, Arizona_

Late afternoon heat shimmered across the surface of the Arizona desert, rippling like quicksilver, smearing the features of towering, saguaro cacti, razor-sharp agave plants, and rough, scrub brush. Bare, craggy mountains rimmed the horizon, tan and jagged, hemming in the valley from all sides like the walls of a fortress. The land bucked and rolled around deposits of brown stone, as high above in the hot blue sky, wispy white clouds stretched like fingers south toward the border, a teasing reminder that the rainy season had passed, and the muted green hues painted across the valley would soon fade. An outcropping of remote buildings butted up against the desert, the outermost crust of the city, factories and warehouses left vacant and gaping as the American economy sputtered. Inside one of these buildings, a boarded up factory with white roofing and corrugated metal siding, a crooked semi-circle of men sat around a laptop propped up on a tower of cinder blocks. A small water cooler rested on the concrete floor at the edge of the ring, next to a case of beer, and a shop fan. Fossils of old, rusted machinery burned red and gold in the western sun, streaming in through high, broken windows. The walls were etched with graffiti, looping and swirling in every imaginable color across brick and metal. The air was musty and stifling, the concrete floor dirty, and yet, it was an ideal location to hide a squadron of wanted fugitives. Cool and dry under the collar of his leather vest despite the heat, Spike turned away from the flickering screen, chewing on the edge of his fist. Behind him the ring of restless young men lounged against barrels, on tires, and crates watched the news apprehensively in between cigarettes and porn magazines.

Not that the operation had gone off without a hitch, but the press was having a veritable field day. The FBI and the NSA were involved. Foreign dignitaries were condemning the attack. CNN had interviewed at least a dozen "experts" in the last 2 hours, everyone from NRA spokespeople, activists for Open Carry Texas, the vice-president of the American Psychological Association, pastors, cardinals, professors, gun control advocates, campaigning politicians, and anyone who was anyone with an opinion to voice. The humans were being dramatic about the whole thing, as usual. He had no patience for these Americans, invading foreign countries, murdering their civilians with drones and airstrikes, while no one batted an eye. But Satan forbid someone kill a few spoiled, white college kids. They may as well have carpet bombed Los Angeles and lit the San Fernando Valley on fire. And the media circus was only just beginning. There was no telling how long the hysteria would continue until it jerked itself out. Another psychologist was speaking to the reporters on the laptop screen. Spike rolled his eyes.

"They're calling us terrorists," he scoffed, "do you think we came on a bit strong?"

The joke fell flat. The men exchanged irritated glances and kept their eyes low. This whole thing had a been gamble, a very risky, high stakes gamble, and it had backfired in the most spectacular way possible. All this media attention and exposure with no slayer to show for it? Spike huffed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"How much longer are we gonna stay here," one man grumbled, swigging golden liquor from the glass bottle in his hand.

Spike heaved an exaggerated sigh and donned his signature, resting bitch face. "Like I've said at at least _three_ times already, we stay until we receive new orders."

"We've been here three days," Eoin growled, pushing a lock of fine black hair out of his liquid blue eyes. Heads nodded all around the circle. "What's the word?"

"No word yet. I know as much as the rest of you fuckers right now."

"We're lucky 'e hasn't killed us yet," Angus said pointedly through his bushy, red beard. "We shouldn't be 'anging around, waitin' t'be ambushed."

"And why would he kill us?" Spike retorted, popping the collar of his leather trenchcoat. "We did what he asked, didn't we?"

"He'll be wantin' a scapegoat, won't he?"

"Angus has a point." Eoin spat onto the filthy concrete. "Not only did we fail to locate the slayer, but we made a bleedin' ruckus, didn't we? The whole country's in an uproar now, and what've we got to show fer it, eh? Nothin'."

"You Irish bastards are all the same." Spike yanked a soft pack from his coat and slipped one of the thin, white cylinders between his teeth. "Short sighted and impatient." He snapped his fingers once and small, orange flame burst from the tip of his thumb.

"And I suppose you Englishmen think you've got the levelest of 'eads, don'tcha? But it wasn't any of us up there screaming on the podium back there."

"Kinda blew our hand, mate."

"Aye. Angelus won't like that one a bit!"

Smug laughter echoed around the circle and knowing looks were exchanged. Spike's expression soured as he focused on lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips. He had killed for less. Even in the company of friends, his temper flared.

"Alright, I'm a bit of a hot head. I won't deny it."

Eoin chuckled darkly. "Your feckin' hair's on fire, lad."

"Oh, stick it up your skirt! Fuck." Spike shoved his way through the ring of burly Irishmen and paced off toward the edge of the abandoned factory, running a hand over his head to extinguish the flames.

"Where're ya goin', Spikey?" Angus hollered, drawing a round of guffaws from his comrades. "Can't take a joke?"

"Leave him alone," Eoin's boots crunched against fallen debris as he stood, "he'll be gettin' plenty of heat from the vampires soon enough. Now," he glanced around at his burly, ill-tempered colleagues, "what's say we find something else to watch, eh?"

.

His choice of dress was, and always had been eccentric, and he favored the 80s for inspiration when he felt like taking new forays into the world of fashion. Time moved faster for his kind anyway, and he didn't give a shit whether he stood out in a crowd. That was the point, wasn't it? Be unique? That's what the posters said. All the same, the unwavering wide-eyed gaze from the mousy girl behind the register unnerved him slightly. She hadn't stopped staring since he had entered the small, air-conditioned restaurant. He glanced sideways at himself in the glass and took stock: tight, violet pants, a shredded black tank top held together with safety pins, a studded, leather choker, and thick, smudged eyeliner.

"What's the matter, love?" His eyes flicked back to the tiny restaurant worker. "Have I got something on my face?"

She flinched and sputtered the question she'd clearly been trying not to ask. "Are you in a band?"

"No," he replied sullenly, squinting at her, "are _you_?"

"N-no."

"Huh." He snorted. "Big surprise, that."

"Um," she squirmed and her eyes darted around the room, "um, can I take your order?"

"Please." He rolled his eyes. "I have a big order. Think you can handle it, love?"

"Y-y-y-"

"You know what? Hold on a tick."

Spike reached for the cell phone buzzing in his pocket and paused to check the caller ID. His predatory gaze caught hers with a smirk across the linoleum countertop, inspiring a new wave of nervous fidgeting from the little cashier.

"I have to take this." He quirked his lip. "Do you mind?"

"No, I'll be here!" she squeaked.

He turned and stomped through the creaky double doors into a sun-bleached, concrete parking lot. It was hot, the way he liked it, and very, very dry. He was still on the outskirts here, and there were few buildings present to clutter the sprawling, desert horizon. A powerful gust of wind swept across the pavement and his hand impulsively strayed to his singed blonde hair.

He swiped his thumb across the screen and put the device against his ear. "Spike here, how may I direct your call?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm at bloody McDonald's, if you can believe that. Picking up dinner for the crew."

"Are you alone?"

"More or less." Spike looked around at the bare, dirt lots surrounding the lonely, roadside establishment. "Lots of space out here in Arizona."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"We don't use names over the phone, surely you know better than that."

Spike produced a small flame and rolled it around on his knuckles. "I've gone and given myself away, haven't I? I keep forgetting about the technology those fuckers have these days." He paused. "Can I call you Pudge?"

"What? Pudge?"

"You sound like a pudgy fellow to me, yunno."

"Can it, Spike."

"Whatever." He rolled his eyes again. What a bore.

"I have instructions for you."

"Brilliant," he licked his lips and looked around to check that no one was watching. "The crew is ready to mutiny."

"But first, Father has asked me to inform you that he is not pleased that you failed to locate the Slayer. Your prime objective was to eliminate her. Instead, you've drawn national attention to our operation, and alerted everyone that she is being hunted. Your plan was poorly executed."

"Now hold on a fucking minute," Spike snapped. "That _wasn't_ my plan! My plan definitely didn't involve shooting up a fucking unveristy in broad fucking daylight!"

"Neither did ours," the voice replied tetchily. "You made a few unwarranted changes."

"Fuck you."

"You always were a drama queen. Does the word 'subtlety' ring a bell in that empty head of yours?"

"Listen here, dicksplash, if you want subtlety don't hire a bunch of ex-IRA guerrilla fighters that specialize in _explosives_ to carry out a stealth operation! My instructions were to find her and take her out at whatever cost. The coordinates you gave me led us to the university, and I believed that a threat to innocent civilians would draw her out into the open."

"Obviously your plan failed miserably."

"I specialize in blowing shit up, not recon operations!"

"Can you at least confirm that she was actually there at the school when you arrived?"

"I- no..."

The caller grumbled angrily. "Then you've got nothing to show for all this mess. Typical."

The mercenary bristled. "Well, at least we got a fucking program. It has the names of all the students in it."

"Fantastic, that narrows it down to what? A thousand people?"

Spike ground his teeth and glared furiously at his pale, smoking fingertips. "Fine, mea culpa. Now, what would Father have us do?"

"There will be time to beg for his forgiveness later. In the meantime, get in touch with the Kingpin. He's heading up an operation that could benefit from your explosive touch."

"Oh, good." Spike spat, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Sounds the like _perfect_ job for a team of _bomb specialists_."

"Indeed." The caller agreed. "But keep a low profile. HQ doesn't want to draw any more attention to this country than you already have. The world expects America to have violent shootings, but a string of occurrences would be unusual, even here. We can't afford to draw the attention of the watcher's council."

"Noted," the blonde man sighed impatiently, "anything else?"

"Oh, and I probably don't even have to say this, but no flying. The FBI will certainly be looking for you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Good luck."

Spike hung up the phone and promptly dropped it onto the hot asphalt, grinding it under the heel of his heavy black boot.

"Arrogant motherfucker."

/ / /

_July 1 - Oxford, United Kingdom_

A knock sounded on the large wooden double doors and a butler entered the room uttering a soft introduction. Presently, he was joined in the doorway by their latest guest, a dapper man in a tweed jacket, white starched shirt, grey vest, red tie, and slacks. His hair, recently cut, was short with a bit of choppy length growing in around his crown. A pair of signature round spectacles rested on his nose. He trailed behind the butler into the vaulted stone chamber, colored light from the stained glass windows catching and tinting his handsome features as he paused here and there around the large, circular wooden table to shake hands with his colleagues.

"Rupert," a commanding voice echoed through the space, "thank you for joining us on such short notice."

Giles pulled out the last vacant chair at the table, wincing at the slight screech of wood against stone, and took his seat. "Thank you, Quentin. It is a pleasure to be back."

Meaningful glances were shared among the members of the Council, but nothing was said aloud about Rupert's previous, disastrous trip to England. In a show of uncharacteristic bravado, the watcher had asserted his loyalties, and the agenda of the head council members was not first on his list. No mention was made of that fateful meeting, however. Dr. Travers' face was polite and impassive as he nodded to Rupert across the table.

Dr. Travers cleared his throat and straightened his suit jacket before continuing. "Time is short, so we had better get underway immediately."

Silver heads nodded in agreement.

"As you may have guessed, the Council has been following the news coverage in the States very closely. We know that the assailants were looking for the slayer, and we know that the notorious mercenary called Spike was involved." He leveled a probing gaze in Rupert's direction before pressing on gravely. "What we do not know are the motives of the Family, in this matter, and how it is that Faith came to be involved."

Giles nodded slowly to show that he understood, but he offered no immediate response. It was unwise to show his hand too soon. He didn't have much to show, anyway, and the motives of the council heads were yet unclear. He clasped his hands on the worn, wooden table in front of him and inclined his head just slightly, imploring Dr. Travers to continue.

"Our intel is weak this time around. Dr. Crawford informs me that there have been no significant disturbances in the demon underworld, and, in particular, very little action from the hellmouths. For there to be an attack of this scale without any of the usual warning signs is unprecedented. We are concerned."

The watcher was tempted to roll his eyes. Demons were masters of chaos, after all, but the illusion of control here in Oxford was paramount to the entire Council operation. He played along.

"As am I."

"Where is your slayer, Rupert?"

"Last I heard she was in Idaho investigating a coven of malevolent witches. She assured me that she wasn't in California at the time of the attack."

"How long ago was that?"

"Perhaps two weeks ago."

Dr. Travers raised a stern, bushy brow. "And where is she now?"

Giles bristled, but refused to be cowed. "I'm not sure. You know by now that she only checks in with her whereabouts when the Council assigns her new jobs."

The venomous smirk dancing across Quentin Travers' lips raised hackles around the room. "I know that you refuse to tame her."

A red flush crept up Rupert's neck. "She's not a dog."

"You allow her to behave like one."

"Have you asked me here to insult me?" the watcher demanded. "If so, we can have a repeat of my last visit. I have no problem telling you, again, where exactly you can shove your backwards opinions."

Dr. Travers' was already opening his mouth to respond when he was interrupted by a calm, female voice, slicing through the tension like a knife. "Rupert, have you spoken with Faith about the attack?"

Giles doused the fire behind his eyes and turned to face the fashionable, and unflappable, Dr. Gloria Stein. "Yes, of course."

"And has she any idea why it occurred?"

"She was unable to offer any insight."

Gloria nodded and made a note in her ledger with an elegant gold pen. "It appears we are all together here in the dark."

"How can she have no idea, Rupert?" Samuel McCullough spoke up, an aging Irishman with a thick head of hair and three days of unshaven, silver stubble blanketing his prominent, square jaw. "This attack was directed at her specifically. I doubt that she is really as oblivious as she seems."

The watcher's eye twitched. "Are you suggesting that Faith lies to me."

"She lies to the rest of us. Why would you be any different?"

"Dr. McCullough raises a good point," Travers added lazily, wickedly. "She's a pathological liar."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Giles slapped his hands against the table. "_You_ of all people know exactly why she feels it necessary to keep her whereabouts a secret!"

Hushed murmurs rose up throughout the chamber as the watcher looked round, meeting shocked expressions with his own rare brand of scalding, English vitriol. Light from the setting sun streamed in through the old, narrows windows saturating his profile in a startling red hue. His eyes burned bright like embers, and a halo of crimson fury flickered around his head. All around him, frozen in glass, the likenesses of Christ and his apostles gazed down, serenely, from their idyllic portraits, a presentation of total unity, an omission of the turmoil that had rocked those twelve disciples in the aftermath of the crucifixion. The chatter rose to a fever pitch as Giles ripped his eyes away and sat back in his chair, lips pressed into a thin, white line. These fights made him feel young and ostentatious. He listened to the voice gain volume and wondered if he would ever feel wise again.

"Enough!" Gloria's no-nonsense tone brought the chaos to a screeching halt. She leveled her gaze at the glowering watcher and pinned him there with keen, hazel eyes. "I want to say, before we move on to anything else, that you are a good watcher, Rupert, despite what has been said here about your competence."

Dr. Travers shifted in his seat.

"Faith has survived her calling longer than any other slayer in recorded history. A feat like that cannot responsibly be ignored. I think that only jealously would prevent us from acknowledging that you are, in ways that are at times mysterious, somehow responsible for her success."

"Gloria-"

Dr. Stein held up a hand. "I'm not finished."

"I apologize." The watcher inclined his head graciously.

"I don't blame you for being protective, Rupert, but Faith is an adult now. The time for teenaged frustrations has come and gone. She can't go gallivanting all across the globe without any accountability for her actions. She's the slayer, and the human race depends on her for survival. She need not report to us, but she must, at the very least, answer to you. In fact, I think it's fitting that it be you, her watcher. After all, this council," she gestured languidly toward her peers, "is an army with ten generals and one soldier. We have a tendency to be overbearing, patronizing." The corners of her eyes crinkled. "It's no wonder that a headstrong young woman finds us difficult to work with. We find _ourselves _difficult to work with, as I'm sure you do."

"You have your moments," the watcher replied, drily.

"Quite," the woman agreed. "Now tell us, what is Faith doing now? Can you answer that?"

"Yes," he sighed and clasped his hands in front of him. "She is investigating the attackers. I don't know exactly where she is, but she checks in every few days with updates. Clearly, the Family is involved, if Spike and his thralls were sent to carry out the attack. As for a motive, there are rumors in the demon underworld of a prophecy that is somehow linked to all of this. She hasn't been able to confirm anything."

"A prophecy?" Travers perked up. "Why didn't you mention this before?"

"I wasn't asked."

Both men eyed each other coldly for a long moment until Dr. Stein cleared her throat and plowed on. "Please, tell us all you can, Rupert. Anything at all."

"There isn't much to tell."

"Then it shouldn't take long to catch us up."

"Very well." He cleared his throat. "Where should I begin?"

"At the beginning," she plucked her pen off the table top and held it, poised above her ledger, "and, please, I beg of you, leave nothing out."


	4. Buffy Summers

**3\. Buffy Summers **

_July 21 - San Dimas, California_

"_Hello_, _is this Buffy Summers_?"

"Yes! One moment, please."

Still on crutches, Buffy limped up the last couple steps and closed the door to her room, muffling the sounds of Dawn arguing with her mother downstairs. The lock clicked behind her and a peaceful silence settled over the room, over her. Her heart rate immediately slowed. She leaned against the door for a long moment, breathing deeply. There wasn't time for this. There wasn't time to be passive. Not anymore. She was sick and tired of being a passenger in her own life. Steeling her nerves, Buffy hobbled over to the desk where a short, but neatly typed resume sat gleaming in the printer.

"Sorry about that!" she said, brightly. "It was too noisy out there. How are you?"

"_Oh, I am just fine,_" the woman replied, and there was a touch of melodic, southern honey in her voice. "_Thanks for asking._"

Buffy's smile was nervous, but genuine. "You're welcome."

"_My name is Jean, and I am calling from Allen &amp; Fox LLC. I was wondering if you had a moment to talk about the Office Administrative Assistant position you applied for with us_."

"O-of course! I have all the time in the world!"

Buffy stammered and her voice sounded too bright, too nervous. She bit her tongue, gaze sliding to the mirror on her vanity where a pale face and wide eyes peered back. She did a double take. Was that her face? When had her eyes become so dark and hollowed? Her fingers strayed to a narrow cheek, skin drawn taut over the bone.

"_Terrific_." the woman, Jean, sounded genuinely pleased, and Buffy snapped back to attention. "_Now, this is just a preliminary interview. Obviously, if we are still interested after today, we will set up a more formal meeting, but I noticed that you have a California area code. Are you still living out there_?"

"For the moment, yes," Buffy said quickly, turning away from the mirror, "but I've been looking for jobs elsewhere. I'm hoping to leave the state."

"_Oh, and why is that_?"

"Well...I went to school in Sunnydale."

"_Ah, yes, okay. I see now on your resume that you received your degree from the University of California at Sunnydale._" A short pause followed on the line. "_Were you, by any chance, at the graduation ceremony last month?_"

Buffy closed her eyes and swallowed. Her heart jumped in her chest. The cast on her leg seemed as heavy as lead, and the weight on her shoulders seemed suddenly too much to bear. She staggered to her bed, nearly falling onto the mattress in her haste to get off her throbbing ankle. A low sigh escaped her as she set her crutches aside, fingers sliding over cold metal and worn, leather pads. Nothing was better yet, and everyone was trying so hard. Her expression was guilty as she glanced through her blinds at the palm trees in the front yard, swaying gently in the midafternoon breeze.

"Yes, I was there."

"_Oh, my word_. _God bless you._ _I am so sorry, dear_."

"Thank you" Buffy said graciously, but she rubbed the tears from her eyes.

Jean's soft reply was far from comforting.

/ / /

_July 25 - San Dimas, California_

It was nearing seven o'clock, and the hazy Los Angeles sky was streaked with brilliant bands of orange and gold. Joyce Summers paced the length of her kitchen, pausing briefly to drum her fingernails against the countertop before continuing her march.

"I just don't understand," she was saying, speaking more to herself than to her daughter, "why would you want to move away at a time like this?"

Buffy sat at the dining table, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed lightly in grim acceptance of her mother's distress. Her eyes followed Joyce's feet, back and forth. A white dress spilled over her knees and curled, blonde hair brushed her cheekbones. She had tried her best to look pulled together for this.

"It's a good job, Mom. I was really lucky to get it."

"I know dear, I know, but New Orleans?" she rounded on her daughter with wide, imploring eyes. "Why on Earth would you rather be in New Orleans than here with your family?"

"The rent is lower, and the cost of living is lower too. I'll be able to afford more on my salary."

"Well, that's true." Joyce wrung her hands. "I just...Louisiana. Of all the places it could have been."

Buffy sighed. "It was that or Minneapolis, and they were the first to give me an offer. Honestly, I'd rather deal with the heat than the snow. I consider myself lucky."

"And I'm so proud of you, honey." Joyce smiled weakly. "I'll just worry about you so much. We've all been through a lot these past couple months." Her eyes lingered on the pink cast wrapped around her daughter's ankle.

"That's why I want to move," Buffy admitted quietly. "I can't stop thinking about...graduation."

Joyce sighed. "I should've known that's what this was about."

"I want to start over somewhere new, so I can forget about what happened and move on."

"I don't know if that is such good idea."

"Mom-"

"You can't just move across the country and expect your problems to disappear, Buff. You still have to work through them in order to get better."

"Mom- I...I know, okay?" Buffy huffed. "I've already got a therapist lined up."

"Does Dr. Sullivan know about this?"

"Dr. Sullivan recommended her."

The air in the kitchen was quiet for a moment as each of them withdrew into their thoughts. The sound of Dawn in her room, singing faintly along with her music, could be heard downstairs. Joyce leaned back against the sink, gaze fixed straight ahead on an unknown object in the dining room.

"Your sister will miss you."

Buffy bit her lip. "I know."

"Your father will miss you."

"He never calls."

Joyce laughed bitterly. "Well, you know he's pretty busy with that secretary of his."

"Mom-"

"I'm sorry, I just…" the woman sighed and ran her hands through her short, wavy hair. " I suppose I'll have to learn how to manage without you, and it's not going to be easy."

"You can come visit whenever," Buffy suggested hopefully, offering a small smile.

"I guess I'll have to, won't I? You're my big, brave, grown up girl now." Joyce leaned in and kissed her daughter on the head. "But I'll still always think of you in that princess outfit you used to wear when we went to visit your grandpa." Joyce sniffed.

Buffy's eyes filled up with tears, and she couldn't bring herself to respond. She would have accepted a job offer in Alaska if it got her out of California for a while. She desperately needed to get away. She heard gunshots in her dreams.

She hadn't slept in weeks.

"Mom," Buffy offered the woman a watery smile. "I love you. I hope you know that. I'm not like, sick of you or anything."

"Oh, honey, of course not!" Joyce smiled and squeezed her daughter's shoulder. "I never thought anything like that."

"Okay. I just wanted you to know."

"And I do. I do know. And I love you, okay? No matter what."

Buffy nodded.

"Now, I _do _have to take Dawn to the movies to meet her friends. Do you want me to pick up Chinese for dinner while I'm out?"

"Yeah," Buffy nodded and wiped her eyes.

"Alright, well that's just what I'll do then! Orange chicken?"

"How did you know?"

Joyce kissed the top of her head and walked in the hallway, calling out to Dawn. Buffy was only able to keep her smile in place until she heard her mother's feet pounding up the stairs. Their voices carried from the second floor, and she heaved sigh, covering her face with trembling hands. No matter how many times she told herself otherwise, she absolutely knew she was running away, and it burned. There was no relief. The secrets kept mounting, like bodies heaped on a pile, growing, like her shame, steadily larger and more unmanageable.

"No, I'm fine, really."

"I'm just tired."

"It's been a long day, maybe next time."

Anything and everything flew out of her mouth, excuses, apologies, outright lies. Anything to deflect the piercing questions. No, she didn't want to talk about how she felt. No she didn't want to reflect, or remember, or think about any of it ever again. Buffy wanted to dig a hole and climb inside, and cover herself in layer upon layer of rich, brown earth until the lights went out, and the noises stopped, and it was quiet in her head again. She had managed to convince friends and family that she was recovering, even while she dodged their calls, cowering in her dark little corner with her demons, screaming in her bed at night, drenched in sweat, throwing furtive glances over her shoulders wherever she went, dodging stares at the mall, avoiding cameras and mirrors and anything that might steal her likeness, force her to really look at what she had become. What had she become? Anxious. Brooding. Fragile. She jumped at the slightest touch and stammered responses to people she had known for years.

Buffy rubbed her fingers into her eyes until the skin was flushed and sore. Her shoulders ached. She leaned back in the knobby kitchen chair and pulled her cardigan tighter across her chest. Faint noises reached her from the street, a motorcycle rumbling past, a dog barking, a basketball bouncing against the sidewalk. What had her therapist said? She only half listened sometimes. Their sessions were awkward. Buffy shifted and squirmed on the green couch for 50 minutes, uncomfortable because for once in her life she didn't feel compelled to fill the silence. She drummed her fingers against the top the of the heavy, oak table.

Oh, yeah.

"I don't think you're trying."

Those were the words that Dr. Sullivan had uttered to her during their last visit. Those were the words that burned her. They dragged a bitter taste up the back of her throat. Was it possible to feel betrayed by a stranger? By a psychiatrist in a frumpy green dress who knew nothing about her? Maybe some things. Maybe sometimes more than her mother...

"If I'm not trying then why does feel like I'm fighting all the time." Buffy remembered her own voice, hoarse and irate, filling the tiny office with the sounds of embarrassed indignation.

Dr. Sullivan hadn't faltered for even a second. "What are you fighting?"

The answer had hung there in the air, suspended between them, and Buffy had refused to say it. She still refused to say it, but it followed her everywhere.

_Myself_.

Her mother's voice on the second floor landing jarred her out of her thoughts. She glanced up at the calendar on the refrigerator door, and a flash of blue filled her head with familiar words.

"It's time to make a heaven out of hell."

"What, honey?" Joyce stalled in the doorway, peering curiously into the kitchen.

Buffy jumped and looked around. "Nothing."

"You sure?"

Dawn shuffled past her mother in tattered jeans and a black concert tour shirt, heading for the car. Buffy swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll be back soon."

Buffy smiled.

She felt like an imposter.

/ / /

_September 5 - Tokyo, Japan_

The hour had grown late on the outskirts of Tokyo. The vendors had already taken down their umbrellas and closed up their shops. The last of the salarymen, returning from their desk jobs, had wandered into the bars or gone home, and a steady rain had begun to fall, tapping against the windowpane, running in little rivulets down toward the planter box on the windowsill. Inside a humble, economy-sized flat, Tara Maclay sat hunched over a large cauldron in the dark, brows furrowed, head bowed, muttering to herself. It wasn't a language that most would recognize, sharp and unpleasant on the tongue, nothing like the elegant Latin incantations that she preferred to use. The pronunciations were difficult and laborious for a human to speak, and she had already gotten it wrong twice, throwing out the first batch after it turned lime green, and the second after it caught fire. The young witch wiped her brow, which had grown moist with stress and condensation. A single drop of sweat into the cauldron could ruin everything. She adjusted the desk lamp clipped to the battered, black music stand which held her grimy spell book and peered closer at the sentence that was vexing her. There was a tricky word in the middle, a long one. Her eyes hovered over the short list of suggestions that she had made in pencil in the margin. There was only one more variation to try before she would have no choice but to pick up the phone and make some calls.

"_Ilon vlak radrastrektsh sor vlishnak torevt…"_

The simmering mixture in the bottom of her cauldron gurgled and began to change. Slowly, and with a great burst of steam, it lost its thick, porridge-like texture, becoming translucent and golden in color. The witch gave a tiny cheer and clapped her hands in excitement. All she had to do now was cool and bottle it. Her client would be very pleased with the results.

A soft rap on the front door echoed in from the hallway, three quick taps in succession, then two more, harder and spaced apart. It was a little code she had devised with Setsuko, the girl who ran her errands and picked up supplies.

"Come in!" She glanced briefly over her shoulder and pulled out her phone to check the time. "Suko-chan, you're late! It's nearly 9:30!"

"Suko-chan won't be coming tonight, I'm afraid." Tara leapt out of her chair, eyes wide, and pressed her back up against the window. "She met a monster on the way and got a little frightened."

"Y-y-y…"

"She dropped these." The intruder dumped a couple of plastic bags on the kitchen table and several bruised onions rolled out. "Tara Maclay," he purred, "I've found you at last."

"Y-you can't be in here!" The frazzled witch sputtered. "I-I b-banish you from this home!"

The man laughed and stepped into the small circle of light surrounding her cauldron and supplies, his ugly, distorted face illuminated for the first time. "I'm too old to be bothered with such petty magic."

"But you can't f-feed in here!" She asserted sharply, stuttering in spite of herself. "_Reddite!_"

The man's face morphed back into its human shape at once, and he reached up to touch his forehead, intrigued. "You have improved."

"I was a child then."

"Not anymore," the vampire drawled quietly, licking his lips, "you are a woman now."

"I'm a witch!"

"Indeed." He smiled lasciviously. "Your cauldron gave you away, I'm afraid." He leaned over the potion and sniffed at it delicately. "May I ask what you're working on? It smells like an elixir for beauty."

"Not exactly. It's very ancient, increases virility and attractiveness in males."

"Is that so? Well, who's the ugly old bastard, hm?"

"What do you want, Angel?"

"That's Angelus to you, witch," he snarled. "I want to know more about the girl."

Tara's heart thumped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"What happened to you?" he lamented with a dramatic flourish. "You used to be honest!"

"It's the t-truth!"

He surged forward and seized her shoulders, forcing her back against the wall rather painfully. "Do I look like I crawled out of my grave yesterday?"

"N-n-n-"

"I _know_ you're the witch that delivered that prophecy. Don't _fuck_ with me now after I've spent _months_ searching for you!"

"N-n-no!"

"There are two ways we can do this." He brought his face up close to hers, eyes flashing as his right hand closed around her pale throat. "Which one is it gonna be?"

Tara began to choke and hot tears ran down her face.

"S-such pro-prophecies aren't meant to be g-g-given twice!" She clawed uselessly at his hand.

Angelus hissed. "I know what the old sages say."

"Everything could c-c-change!" she panted. "A second t-t-telling could alter the p-prophecy in ways I can't see! It's p-p-pointless!"

"You think I don't know this? I don't care! Tell me!"

"I c-c-"

"Tell me!"

She shook her head until he increased the pressure. Her mind was swimming. Her heart was pounding. She was too scared to think of any of her spells, and the angry vampire was too strong to be affected by most of them anyway. He could kill her in a second, and she knew it. He lifted her up by the neck and threw her against the opposite wall. Her shoulder crunched and she cried out in pain, sliding to the floor in a heap. Angel just glowered at her darkly by the window.

"After everything we did for you, _this_ is what I get in return. It was foolish to trust a human, wasn't it?" He kicked the stand holding her spellbook, glaring as it crashed to the ground. "My brother was right. I should have killed you and bathed in your blood!"

Tara's shoulder was either broken or separated. She didn't know which, but the fire lighting up her nerve endings had her gasping either way.

"Y-you killed my family. You kept me p-prisoner." Tara clenched her teeth to still the shaking. "I d-d-don't c-call that...kindness."

A sudden knock at the door startled them both. The vampire lifted his head and sniffed delicately.

"Your foul landlord by the smell of it." Angel grimaced. "He probably heard the noise."

The terrified witch, huddled up on the floor against the wall, just whimpered and said nothing.

"Should I spare him some of my _kindness?_ Hm?" He hissed at her like a viper. "Should I kill him?"

"No..." she whispered, clutching her shoulder.

The knocking started up again, more insistent this time. Tara focused her mind, searching for the aura behind the wall. The malicious searing from her shoulder faded away until she was able to extend her awareness beyond the confines of the modest flat. There were two figures, one short and slender, the other stooped and old.

Setsuko.

She blanched, returning to the room to find the vampire leering at her, lips curling, keen gaze flickering with deadly interest.

"Your eyes," he stepped away from the window, sliding out of the shadows with a demonic grin on his pale, handsome face, "they're black."

Tara mumbled something quiet and incoherent, struggling upright as her shoulder knit back together. Immediately, she waved her hand, casting a deflection charm around the entrance to her apartment. She felt the distress of the figures in the hallway as they were repelled from her door, Setsuko most acutely. Before she was able to conjure any more magic, however, Angel crossed the apartment, traveling at supernatural speed as he knocked aside carefully preserved jars of herbs and trans-dimensional specimens like bowling pins. Metal flashed as he unsheathed a scimitar from deep within his long, black coat. He whipped the blade around at lightning speed and pressed it flush against her trachea, cold fingers curling in her flowing, brown hair as he yanked her head back.

"Make no mistake," Angel hissed, "I enjoy killing with my bare hands. I love to feel the heartbeat of my enemies quicken before I tear them apart." He brought their faces closer and closer, until she could smell the stale scent of rust on his acrid breath. "But this blade is cursed, and no spell that you could ever hope to conjure will break it!"

"No…"

"Tell me about the girl! Tell me _everything_, or I swear on the black gates of Hell that I will tear you, and your precious little errand girl to pieces!"

Tara glared back helplessly, tears flowing freely from her bottomless, black eyes. "If you kill me. Morimoto will be angry."

Angel laughed. "He'll never even know I was here!"

"H-he knows you're here now."

The vampire flinched and glanced around quickly, gaze darting from one side of the room to the other until his eyes landed on a flickering red light in the corner by the refrigerator. "You wicked bitch!" he snarled, striking her sharply across the face.

Tara smiled in spite of herself. Demons frequently overlooked the capabilities of modern technology. More than once she had foiled some would-be-assassin because they had failed to consider the presence of an electronic alarm or a surveillance camera. Her smile melted away, however, as Angelus forced his deadly blade up, nicking the soft flesh below her chin, drawing blood.

"You have five minutes to tell me what I want to know before I flay the skin off your bones!" His voice trembled with rage. "The girl in the prophecy, tell me her name!"

"I don't...I doesn't work that w-"

He snatched up a handful of the witch's hair and jumped to his feet, dragging her behind him, sobbing, clawing at the floor, hands casting about wildly for something to grasp, as he stalked to the window. He threw her to the floor with such great strength that the air was forced from her lungs in a great gasp, and kicked the window out. The sound of shattered glass hitting the wet pavement below was heard faintly as he seized the desperate witch, still choking and sputtering, and raised her up until they were eye level, her feet dangling off the ground. A pair of stray voices carried up from the street, calling out in their native Japanese as more onlookers emerged from the bar across the street.

"Last chance." Angel's voice was deadly and quiet. "Tell me something...anything that will help me find her, or I'll be forced to use this."

He reached into his coat and snatched something hanging around his throat bringing it out into the dim light for her to see. It was a pendant, a very unremarkable pendant at first glance, simple, round, no larger than a U.S. silver dollar, hanging from a leather cord around the vampire's neck. It was made of copper that had long since oxidized and turned green, and looked as though it had spent a good deal of time in the ground. There was dirt crusted round a series of Chinese characters stacked in the center. Her dark eyes widened.

"Where did you get that?"

"So, you recognize this then?" Angelus smirked. "I guess it was worth the price. It was almost impossible to find."

"You can't use it!"

"I think you'll find that I can."

"You're playing with forces you don't understand-!"

The vampire clamped his hand over her mouth and snarled a simple verse in Mandarin. The pendant began to glow, and it was too late now. They were past the point of no return.

Tara's eyes rolled around her head like black marbles. She was slipping into the prophetic state. Nobu's men would never arrive in time, and Angelus was going to kill her, regardless of whether he got information he craved. His aura told her everything. He was radiating hate, hate and fear. This was the end. She could feel his arms lifting her up, ready to cut her throat and fling her broken body into on the asphalt three stories below.

"What have you done?!" she cried, twisting in his grasp, black eyes glinting in the orange streetlight as raindrops pounded on her back.

Dark, inky tears, like wet mascara, poured onto her cheeks, staining them, tainting them. Why was he doing this? One slayer for all the world? Another would be called. Nothing could break the line. There would always be one, and her? Her life for the life of a girl that wouldn't live to see her 25th birthday? The most hunted girl in all the world?

Why?

She couldn't stop it now. It would kill her if she resisted. Tara centered herself, emptied her mind, straining until the energy took over, enveloped her, filled her and possessed her. Her skin began to burn. Her muscles began to shake. When she opened her mouth to speak once more, her voice was not her own. It was deeper. It was louder. It shook the walls and echoed into the streets.

"SHE COMES LIKE THOSE CHOSEN BEFORE HER, TO TURN THE TIDE AWAY FROM THE SHADOW OF DARKNESS, TO BREAK THE STAGNANT BALANCE OF GOOD AND EVIL, A CHAMPION TO DELIVER MANKIND INTO A GOLDEN AGE OF PROSPERITY."

The witch began to float, hovering in front of the awestruck vampire even as he released her and stepped away. Her head fell back, facing up toward the sky, hair flying about in the breeze of some ethereal wind. Angel never felt reverence for anyone but himself, but prophecies like this one were always a magnificent show, an unparalleled display of power, and he nearly fell to his knees. Electricity crackled around Tara's suspended body in bright flashes of purple and red. Her modest, ankle-length skirt, now swirled and billowed against her legs. He could feel the energy flowing through her as her sightless eyes turned to face him.

"THE CHILDREN OF DARKNESS WILL LOSE THEIR HOLD ON THIS WORLD." Her voice echoed in his head, in his thoughts. "SHE WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH A POWER THAT YOU HAVE NEVER POSSESSED."

"Who?!" He shouted, straining his voice over the sound and fury of the supernatural winds whipping around her body. "Who is she?!"

The witch smiled at him, too wide to be Tara, too wide to be human, and he detected something else that rattled him.

Pity.

"IF I SHOW YOU NOW, YOU WILL NEVER AGAIN KNOW PEACE."

"I don't want peace!" Angel shouted desperately. "I want to live!"

"THE FORCES OF LIGHT MOVE AGAINST YOU, CHILD OF SHADOW. DEATH COMES TO EVERYONE IN DUE TIME, AND IT WILL COME TO YOU. YOU CLING TO WHAT IS FLEETING."

"Show her to me!" He cried out again, more insistent and aggressive with every passing moment.

Shattered bits of glass and wood swirled around his boots as the floating witch descended abruptly to the floor and surged forward, covering his eyes with dark, glowing hands before he could flinch. Immediately his mind was flooded with images and voices. The face of a small, blonde girl, smiled through the fragmented bits and pieces of the life he was witnessing. First steps into the arms of a woman with curly hair. First dance on the arm of a skinny teenage boy. Falling off her bike and skinning her knee. Pouring over papers and books at a wooden desk. High heels and dresses and oversized sunglasses and long hot days at the pool. A normal girl living in her normal world.

The witch abruptly withdrew her hands and the visions receded. The violent gale had ceased, and apart from the confused voices drifting in through the shattered window, the city was quiet. Angel shook his head, astonished and dizzy. His limbs were tingling and the muscles in his face ached.

"Did you see her?"

"I saw her…" He peered at the black eyes studying him, waiting expectantly for his answer. "She looked like a normal human girl."

The superstorm of energy had evaporated in the wake of Tara's vision, and the depleted girl abruptly slumped backward, falling first onto her hands and knees, before crumpling to the ground in a heap of tangled hair and limbs.

Angel closed his eyes, tracing the innocent face that peered back at him, unsuspecting. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, slight figure, and narrow hips. The girl was tiny! And he had seen her, _really_ seen her. Her entire life had flashed before his eyes like a technicolor rolodex of scrapbook images. A faint smile graced his lips as he stood, a dark phoenix rising from the destruction in the apartment.

"What is her name?"

"Buffy...Anne...Summers…"

Shouts sounded from the stairwell, jarring him from his thoughts. "Ms. Maclay," he gazed down at her benignly, almost gently, "I believe our visit has come to an end."

He turned and leapt up onto the fractured windowsill, glass crunching under his heels as dark leather swirled behind him. She lay still and said nothing.

"Till next time."

He reached up abruptly and gripped the overhang, hoisting himself swiftly onto the rainy rooftop and out of sight. A crowd of spectators had gathered below the apartment building, and they gasped and shouted in awe, their voices carrying into the shattered room, washing over Tara's faintly ringing ears like the the rain that fell relentlessly outside. By the time the yakuza's henchmen crashed through the front door and flooded the room, she had succumbed to her exhaustion and fallen unconscious.


	5. Lost and Found

_6.16.15_

_So, I'm terrible at self promotion. My friends are all like, "you gotta advertise yourself! Make people like you! Be shameless for once!" But that all seems disingenuous, right? Especially since I'm the type to let my work speak for itself. Is that how people get thousands of followers? Shameless self-promotion? I'm not even sure. _

_Anyway, I wanted to say thanks to madison4865, TieDyeJackson, and yes even you, Guest, whoever you are. Just...thanks guys. Thanks for reading and thanks for taking a moment to tell me what you think. It makes me want to publish these chapters faster. Seriously. I don't even care that it's cliched to say that. It's freaking true. _

_You're great. _

_Here's chapter 4. _

_-Rex_

* * *

**4\. Lost and Found**

_September 5 - Chicago, Illinois_

Spike had just stepped out into the balmy September night and was lighting up a fresh cigarette outside his motel room when the cell phone in the pocket of his tight black jeans began to buzz.

"Fuck's sake!" He groaned and retrieved the device bitterly. "Spike here! The fuck do you want?"

"_Where are you_?"

"Englewood! In my bloody motel room! What is it this time?"

"_Englewood_?"

"You heard me!"

"_Where is_ _that_?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "Like you don't know."

"_I'm not familiar with it, no_."

Spike opened his mouth quickly and then shut it, biting back a vicious retort. He pulled the phone away from his ear and examined the number on the screen. The area code was foreign. Well, shit. If he were less of a fucking hot head he would've had the presence of mind to check who was calling before he started yelling. He placed the receiver back to his ear.

"I'm in Chicago."

"_Ah. Good_."

He glanced warily at the blinking Pink Elephant Motel sign on the other side of the parking lot and took a deep drag off his cigarette before going on.

"Who is this?"

"_We don't use names over the phone, idiot_."

"You're different than the last caller," Spike mused, watching cars pull in and out of the seedy gas station across the street. Loud rap music spilled out of a black Escalade that sailed into a spot up front and screeched to a stop. The doors opened and three teenagers in baggy jeans and royal blue shirts spilled out, heading inside toward the counter.

"_Good memory. Not as dumb as they said you were_."

The dour English mercenary ran his fingers over his freshly buzzed head, mourning the loss of his bright, peroxide blonde hair. "You have thirty seconds to tell me what the fuck you want."

"_I have instructions for you_."

"For the love of satan, tell me that they don't involve the Kingpin, because I don't know if I can stand another _second_ in this arsehole of a city."

"_Chicago is hardly an 'arsehole'._"

"Have you ever been to Englewood?"

"..._Don't change the subject_."

Spike sneered but said nothing.

"_Like I mentioned before, I have instructions, and lucky you, they don't involve the Kingpin_."

"Thank you, Jesus," the mercenary muttered, watching apathetically as the kids across the street piled back into their SUV with paper bags full of stolen beer.

"_Father wants you to go to New Orleans. Same rules as before. No flying_."

"Alright, then. What's in New Orleans?"

"_The Champion_."

"You found her?" Spike's eyes widened dramatically and he lowered his voice to a dark murmur. "How did you find her?"

"_Older brother paid a visit to the witch who delivered the prophecy_."

"Straight from the source, then?"

"_Yeah_." Muffled voices carried over the line, completely indiscernible and hushed "_Alright...well, no more details for now. Get to New Orleans. We'll have a contact pick you up._"

"Book us something nicer than the bloody Motel 6 this time, yeah?"

"_I'm sure it can be arranged._"

"How 'bout you arrange it then," Spike growled. "I'm sick of cold showers and broken A/C."

More hushed whispering, followed by a couple of dry chuckles. "_Will it motivate you to get there faster_?"

The lanky Englishman smirked. He loved getting his way. "Of course."

"_Holding you to your word then. Consider it done._"

"Excellent." Spike licked his lips. "See you in The Big Easy."

.

_September 6 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

"Hey, Buffy."

A pale hand waved back and forth across her line of sight. "What? Huh?"

Oz smiled at her. "I was asking why you moved to New Orleans...?"

"Oh, right." Buffy glanced around hesitantly at the crowded porch, packed to the rails with business people, men in loose ties and rolled up sleeves, women in dry-clean-only skirts and dresses with bare shoulders.

Her coworkers stared at her expectantly.

"Um, I guess I just needed a change?"

"From Southern California?" Bonnie's laugh was incredulous. "Girl, you're outta your mind."

"Ha, yeah." Buffy's answering laugh was tepid. "I mean, I lived there my whole life, you know? I never left."

"Well, welcome to Louisiana, honey. Best food in the South, and don't let anybody tell you different. Waiter-!" Bonnie snapped her manicured fingers and flagged down a lanky kid in a rumpled white button-up. "Get this girl another drink, on me. She gon' need it."

Buffy ordered another margarita.

"You okay, Buffy? You look a little...dazed."

Buffy peeled her nervous gaze off the table and fixed it, tenuously, on her cube mate. Oz just smiled. It took the edge off. He was laconic and laid back, and the girls liked him because he was in a band or something. A guy like him was never short on weekend plans. She could hear them flirting with him through her earbuds when they came over to invite him out. No one invited her out.

"Fine." She shifted in her chair and tried to get comfortable.

It was impossible to get comfortable anymore. She was always tense. Her muscles ached. Oz peered at her through cool, blue eyes, and she regarded him quietly in return. It was easy to see what the other girls saw. He was an unconventionally attractive man with a lean jaw and a long, straight nose, light features, and a crown of thick orange hair that was currently sticking out in all directions. He had a rugged, masculine quality, in spite of his refined features, and it was quietly magnetic. The inclination was tentative, but Buffy found that she wanted to know more about him.

He cocked his head to one side. "Just fine?"

"Yeah."

"Hm. Well, I know what that's like," Oz said quietly.

"What?"

"I grew up in Denver."

"I've heard that Denver is beautiful."

"It is." He nodded, and his mouth twitched into a soft smile. "My friends thought I was crazy when I left."

Buffy propped her elbow on the sticky tabletop and leaned into her hand. "Were you?"

"Crazy?" Oz chuckled. "Yeah. Stir-crazy."

She lowered her eyes and swished the last dregs of melting ice in her glass. Bonnie had started up a game of 10 fingers with Mike, Vijay, and Alisha, all laughing and shouting over each other as they vied for attention. They had gone out of their way to invite her to happy hour, her first company outing since she'd arrived in early August, and she was grateful, but her heart rate was too high. The colors were too bright. The voices were too loud. It was too much, arms and legs and faces all slipping and sliding together like an incoherent dream. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"That's not why I left," she admitted, speaking in a low voice that only Oz would hear. "What I said before."

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. The waiter sailed past and deposited Buffy's next drink. She reached for it desperately, chucked the straw on her plate, and downed the first third in a single gulp.

"So, why'd you really leave?" he probed.

"I don't know." Buffy plucked some salt from the rim of her glass and rolled it between her fingers. "I loved California."

Oz nodded, almost like he understood. Or maybe he just understood her, what she was saying, what she was feeling. Her confusion. Maybe he understood her confusion. Tears gathered in her vision, clouding it. She dropped her head again.

"Hey." A gentle hand rested atop her own. "It's gonna be okay."

Buffy took a deep breath and killed her drink.

.

_September 7 - Las Cruces, New Mexico_

With the wind in her hair, Faith felt invincible. She never got tired of this. As the engine hummed between her thighs, she wondered if she could learn to be happy without anything else. Just two legs and two wheels, and nothing else. Sometimes, when she was exhausted from months of missions and fights, Faith fantasized about running. Just dropping off the map, changing her name, cutting her hair, finding a bungalow on a beach somewhere and settling down to a life of waves, sand, and strangers. She had first confronted this impulse during a visit to Florida, chasing down a self-proclaimed witch doctor with a nasty temper and a penchant for sadistic curses. In a diner outside Jacksonville, eating breakfast alone at 3am, she had seen a woman's picture in the local paper. She still remembered the name, Silvia Reyes, missing from her family home for barely a week at the time. Silvia had taken the car and a suitcase and disappeared, and Faith had been surprised, maybe a little disgusted with herself, to realize that she got it. She got it completely. She could identify with a mom that had run out on her kids. It wasn't right. Faith knew what abandonment felt like after a lifetime of cash stuffed in birthday cards, envelopes from her father with no return address. And yet, as she rode through the desert, with only her clothes, and her pack, and her bike, the phone in her pocket felt like dead weight. The last thing tying to her to civilization.

The moon rose steadily over distant mountains, the faintest traces of silver outlining their precipices and curves against the night sky. Some miles below her, down a long, gently sloping hill, a cluster of orange lights marked the coordinates of a rural town. She checked to her right, checked to her left, then released the clutch and gunned the throttle, cutting across the opposite lane as she sailed around a lumbering semi-truck. The dark plains opened up in front of her, and she was flying. Heart hammering, body thrumming, blood pumping. She wanted to fly off the pavement straight into the starry sky. disappear into the night and never look back. Instead she pushed the bike to 120 mph and let her pulse race, let her hand off of the throttle, let the bike slow to a more conservative 90 mph.

The blood on hands was dried now, and itchy, sticky reminder under padded leather gloves. It steeled her resolve. The ash of a dozen dead vampires was mixing with the sand somewhere behind her, and her head was filled with strange snippets of conversations, swirling, overlapping, contradicting each other. Demons had a tendency to be superstitious, ironic as that seemed to her, and it was always difficult to separate fact from awed, over-blown fiction. She wasn't gifted with the patience for recon, had only lasted five minutes before she started carving up the face of a repugnant fanger with a missing ear. All she had to show for that lead were delightful memories of screaming vampires, shouting whatever they could think of so that maybe she would stake them quicker. No, it wasn't subtle, but she enjoyed it. Violence was more her speed.

The road stretched on.

She stopped in Las Cruces to fill up her tank and take a breather. It was nearly one in the morning, and Phoenix seemed like another continent. Her legs were shaking. No ordinary person could have withstood a 7 hour trip on a sportbike, but she wasn't ordinary. She rolled her Ducati into a parking spot and propped her helmet on the handle bars. It felt like peeling off an old bandaid. Fresh air rushed to cool her face, and she had to take a minute to bask, just watching the moths buzz around the flickering neon sign above the mini mart. Inside, she purchased a Monster and some teriyaki beef jerky from an elderly Mexican man who probably belonged in a retirement home. Faith would never get that old, and it was another one of those strange mercies included in the slayer gig. She paid in cash, thanking him expertly in fluent Spanish, much to his surprise, and refused the change with a wink.

Outside, she plopped down on the curb and wolfed down her snack, ignoring open stares from some teenaged gang members eyeing her bike. They were arguing with each other about something as they they glanced at her, and she couldn't quite make it out. She pulled a napkin from the pocket of her riding jacket and unfolded it to reveal a name. Raising her hand, Faith signalled to them, and the tallest one approached her warily. He was inked with an unintelligible mash-up of gang tattoos, crawling up his arms and into his wife-beater, out of sight. He still carried some baby fat around his middle, in the way that only Hispanics could, but there was definition in his muscles. He adjusted the flat-brimmed Dallas Cowboys hat cocked to one side on his head, growing nervous under her silent gaze.

"Que pasa?" he said. "What do you want?"

"La Cobra," she replied quietly, eyes narrowing. "Lo estoy buscando. Dónde está?"

"No, no le conozco." He glanced over his shoulder at his friends, clustered together around a suped-up black Camaro with a spoiler and aftermarket chrome hubcaps. "Quien es?"

Faith rolled her eyes. A tattoo of a viper was clearly visible on his neck. She chugged down the dregs of her energy drink and crushed the can into a thin, silver disc against the cement, then unzipped her jacket and reached inside, as casually as one might grab a cigarette, emerging with a long, wicked hunting knife. It was custom made, silver-plated, not that the kid in front of her would be able to appreciate the usefulness of that particular feature.

"La Cobra is your boss." She ran the pad of her index finger over the curve of the blade, drawing a thin red line. "He has information that I need." Her eyes flicked up to the incredulous gang member. "Where is he?"

"Puta loca," he muttered, backing away slowly.

Faith jumped to her feet, twirling the knife in her hands. "Wrong answer."

She lunged, and he was virtually defenseless against her speed. She was the tiger, he was the bait, and this was her jungle. His friends scrambled to retrieve their weapons from the car, but Faith just leered into the face of her captive. Naturally, he was much more cooperative with a knife against his spleen.

"I wouldn't." She narrowed her eyes at a gun-waving teenager in a Spurs jersey. "I mean, not if you like your friend, Pablo here."

She turned her head against their furious curses and glared at the man in front of her. A wicked smile spread across her lips as she dragged the tip of the knife up his front, tearing tiny holes in his shirt where pinpricks of blood soaked through. By the time her blade reached his clavicle he was visibly quivering.

"Dime!" She snapped her teeth in his face. "Dónde está su jefe?"

He swallowed, and the movement created a momentary bulge of muscle in his neck. She lifted his jaw with the blunt edge of her knife and waited. Patience was a virtue, but she wasn't very virtuous. After a few seconds she pressed harder.

"El Paso," he croaked. His gaze shifted to his crew, standing in a tense semi circle around the Camaro.

"Bueno." She licked her lips. "Now, El Paso es un gran ciudad, no?"

He seemed to catch her drift. "335 Rodeo Drive. Tell them Hernando sent you."

"Sweet." Faith released him and stowed her knife.

Hernando stumbled to his car. He spoke a few clipped words to his accomplices and they left without incident.

/ / /

Outside Las Cruces, highway 10 turned due south, brushing up against the fingertips of the Rocky Mountains. The landscape here was no less arid, perhaps even more so, punctuated east of the road by silhouettes of craggy hilltops that jutted into the sky. Errant porch lights twinkled in the dark, beacons from distant ranches and prefab homes tiny sparks of life in a black sea. An hour's ride brought her to the first outpost of life in the great state of Texas. The city of El Paso washed up against the slopes of Franklin Mountain, and flowed down across the border into Mexico. Beyond the concrete fence, illuminated clearly even in the dead of night, the neighborhood blocks of Ciudad Juarez stretched off into the horizon. It was a city divided, bridged by a single, raised highway, lanes marked with crisp lines and bright, white lights.

As she neared the heart of El Paso, Faith drifted lazily around a train of semi-trucks. She rode with less urgency now. Her body was tired, muscles sensing the end of their marathon journey. She took an exit at the foot of the mountain, and wolfed down a double meat burger, onion rings, and large coke in the vacant dining room of a 24 hour Whataburger. She purchased a patty melt to go, and took it with her to the nearest hotel, stuffing it into her mini fridge along with with two cans of beer and a water bottle. The shower that followed was short and lukewarm, rinsing off layers of sweat, dried blood, and irritation. She pressed her palms flat against the tiles and bowed her head into the stream of water, letting the day pool around her ankles, swirl into the drain. When she climbed out again, she was so tired that she could hardly towel off, swaying precariously as she collapsed into the stiff, queen bed, naked and wet. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

/ / /

_September 7 - El Paso, Texas_

"I'm here to see La Cobra."

Two bulky men guarded the polished wooden doors that lead into the old, stone ranch house. They squared their shoulders and exchanged glances as Faith approached. She had been watching them long enough to know that they were bored, and little bit sadistic, and not particularly intelligent. One was Hispanic with a full moustache and a thick head of hair, the other bald and white. In their crisp grey polos, it was clear that they were hired muscle.

After several seconds, 'moustache' spoke. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Nope." Faith popped the 'p' and folded her arms.

"You need an appointment."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "How do I make an appointment?"

"_You_ don't make an appointment. _He_ makes an appointment with you."

"Is he the fuckin' president?" Faith sneered at them. "Some guy named Hernando sent me. I've gotta talk to him."

"I don't care if Jesus Christ himself sent you," moustache growled, "you need an _appointment_."

"Yeah?" Her eyes flashed. "You gonna tell me how to get one or what? 'Cuz I need to talk to La Cobra, and I ain't leavin' 'til I do."

"Hey," Baldy piped up, "I got an idea."

"Oh, yeah?" She whirled on him. "And what's that?"

"You can be the morning entertainment." His oily smirk split into a lascivious grin. "Just put on a thong and some fishnets, baby, and we'll buzz you right in."

"Really?" Faith sounded bored. "What's the point of all that?"

"Huh?" Baldy squinted at her behind his aviators.

She shrugged. "I mean, if I'm just gonna take it all off again."

"Bitch has a point," the other suggested.

"Yeah, but there's no point if we don't get a show."

"That's a good point, too." Moustache turned back to Faith, who was picking black polish off her finger nails. "How 'bout it, mamasita? Wanna show us what'chu wearin' under all that black?"

Faith smirked. "That depends."

"Oh yeah?" The goons leaned in a bit closer, adjusting their kakhi slacks. "On what?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

Faith landed a hard fist in Baldy's crotch and used her left knee to disable moustache in a similar manner. They dropped to the ground, red-faced, cradling their pelvic regions.

"Fucking bitch!"

The brunette delivered a deft kick in the teeth to mr. moustache before stepping over their bodies and using her strength to force open the door.

"Adios, mulas!" She waved over her shoulder and shut the door behind her.

No sooner had the broken lock clicked behind her than a deep, silky voice rang out from the interior of the sparsely decorated ranch house.

"You made fast work of my guards."

Faith stiffed for a moment, and then immediately smiled. She sauntered down a short stone corridor that opened up into an open living room with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall. Seated in a massive armchair in front of a roaring fire was a familiar, scaly red demon. His musculature was lean and well allocated, and the slayer knew him to be roughly 12 feet tall. His wings were tucked discreetly behind his back, and he had filed down his talons so as not to damage the book he was reading.

"Dabuek." The slayer greeted him with respect. "I wasn't expecting to find you here. I like the new street name." She winked. "Edgy."

"Thank you, slayer."

He closed the tiny, paperback novel and stood, rising to his full height. He stretched his wings and blinked at her through slanted, yellow eyes, a grimace of a smile appearing on his narrow, reptilian face.

"Have you lost weight?" Faith asked, giving him a quick once over. "You look fabulous."

Dabuek patted his leathery stomach. "I've cut down on my intake of baal demons. Too fatty."

"Yeah, I prefer a nice, grilled chicken salad, myself."

The towering red creature gestured politely at one of the oversized couches flanking his chair. "Won't you have a seat?"

Faith flopped down, propped her boots on the oak coffee table, and studied her surroundings. Skylights built into the apex of the high, peaked ceiling bathed the room with bright sunlight. Dabuek preferred homes built with natural materials, stone, wood, metal. The ranch house had all of those elements, and felt very much like a lodge, perched on the side of the mountain with panoramic views of El Paso. The furniture was all made of wood or leather, and it was all abnormally large. The stone walls were adorned with personal effects, albeit the sort of personal effects a demon would keep around: skulls of defeated enemies, polished weapons and shields, shelves that held crystals and gems and glinting gold ornaments. Faith noted the huge, celadon pot in the corner holding a live fig tree, and the pungent herbs growing in vases around the room, a sign that, among his other domestic hobbies, Dabuek had picked up gardening. Her eyes shifted lazily to the tongues of blue and purple flame flickering in the fireplace, which, given that it was August, explained why the room wasn't absolutely stifling. Magical fires didn't emit heat in this dimension. For as hard as demons struggled to escape their own dimensions, they sure did long for the comforts of home.

"What brings you to El Paso, slayer?"

Faith met his steady gaze. "I could ask you the same question. Last we met you were running a magic exchange out of a bazar in Zaragoza. What happened?"

He flicked his wrist in what might have been an almost effeminate manner, were it not for his garishly reptilian appearance. "One grows tired of the same views after a while."

"Don't I know it."

"The trade here on the border is good. The Mexican community is fond of my products. They are a mystical people."

"Your bouncers don't seem too concerned about your..."she arched a brow, "appearance."

The demon smiled, and it was a gruesome sight in spite of its intended softness. "I have a human alter ego. La Cobra."

"He rallies the troops?"

"Yes."

"So, where is he?"

"Right in front of you." Dabuek spread his arms. "Those men are charmed. They have never seen me in this form."

Faith nodded. Some demons were strong enough to use magic as a disguise. It was a bold existence, however, to live in such close proximity with humans, and often the link was malevolent. The world was rife with demon crime lords, mercenaries, and gangsters, employing wicked men to gain power, infamy, and glory. Dabuek, for whatever reason, was one of the few who delighted in simpler human pastimes and pursuits. Cooking was his favorite.

"How have you been occupying yourself?" He produced a pitcher of iced tea from thin air, along with two frosty glasses, and offered one to Faith.

"Running errands for the Powers and the Council." She accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. "Most of it's pretty boring, but I _did _spend some time in Istanbul hunting a cult of Sufi necromancers."

"Sufi necromancers?"

"You heard it here first."

"Sufi...that's a branch of Islam, yes?"

"Something like that."

"Hm. Yours is a strange world, slayer."

"Says the enormous scaly demon."

Dabuek chuckled "Humans are fascinating to me. You are all so frail, and yet, so reckless with your health. You kill as readily as my own kind."

Faith glanced away. "I don't know about that." Her hand curled into fist.

"Why have you come to see me?"

She twitched. "Why?"

"Yes." He frowned. "Did I upset you?"

"No, I'm fine." Her voice was tight and clipped. "I need some information."

The demon tweaked one of his long, pointed ears. "What kind of information?"

"I'm looking for someone..." she sighed, "but I'm not really sure who I'm looking for."

"Alright. How can I assist you?"

"There was some kind of prophecy...'

"I've heard."

"Of course you have." Faith rolled her eyes. "I swear you hear everything. I've been trying to beat something out of the vampires for weeks, but they're fucking useless. Everything they say sounds like superstitious bullshit."

"You are looking for the other slayer."

"Yeah." The brunette clenched her teeth and gave him a quizzical look. "She's really a slayer? Not a potential?"

Dabuek shook his head, and his scales glinted like rubies in the firelight.

"God damnit," she groaned. "I'm so confused. None of this makes any sense."

"I'm not sure how there can be two slayers at once."

"That's kind of the problem."

Dabuek considered this. "I only know what I've heard, so I cannot help you there, but I have a name. The girl you seek is Buffy Summers."

"Oh." The name was unfamiliar. Faith rolled it around in her head for a second. "Where can I find her?"

"New Orleans. Would you like some more tea?"

Faith glanced down to see that she had indeed drained her glass. "Um, sure."

He waved his talons and the pitcher appeared once again, completely full, as though it had never been emptied. The glass in her fingers vanished and she saw that he was pouring the dark brown liquid into a new, pristine glass.

She smirked. "If only all demons used their powers for iced tea instead of evil."

He offered a wistful smile and said nothing, handing back her glass in a large, taloned hand.

"Thanks."

"Slayer, time is of the essence. The Family is hunting Buffy Summers. I think that you should go to her as quickly as possible."

"The Family? Fuck, are you sure?"

"I am not completely certain, but I am certain enough. Again, there have been rumors, but I have not been privy to the specifics."

Faith stared down at the polished concrete floor, knocking the heels of her boots together. "Keeping their cards close."

"That seems to be the case, which, as you well know, slayer, is never a sign of good will from the demon underworld."

"Good will?" She scoffed. "Most demons would gut me and barbeque my entrails."

A deep chuckle rumbled in the red giant's throat. "Cruder things than that, I think."

"Let's do me a favor and not dwell on it."

They sat together in silence for several minutes, staring at the fire. When Faith spoke again, her voice was tired, resigned. She set her glass on the coffee table and ran her hands over her face, scrubbing her reluctance away.

"Dabuek…"

"Yes?"

"It's nice to see you again."

"It is nice to see you, too, slayer."

She closed her for a moment. "I wish I could just stay here for a while."

"Hm." He growled softly, deep in his chest, and crossed his long, leathery legs. "I don't pretend to understand the burdens you carry, but it seems to me that you enjoy your calling."

Faith sighed through her fingers. "I do. Well, I did. When I was younger."

"And now?"

"I'm getting tired."

He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. "Is it your body or your mind that is tired?"

"This body never rests." Faith's laugh was mirthless. "It doesn't let me sleep until I've worn it out, but somehow," she pressed her forefinger to her temple, "up here I'm just...I don't know how to describe it. I'm...weary." She turned to him on the couch, boots sliding off the coffee table and onto the floor. "I'm tired of always moving around. Some days I want to settle in a place for a while and see how people live."

"Maybe live yourself," he mused.

"Yeah." Faith ran her fingers through her hair. "I've been on the run since I was 15. It would be nice to just stay here for a while."

"Well, you have my permission to rest here, if that's what you need."

"No." She sighed. "I'll leave as soon as I finish my tea."

"Then at least let me pack you a lunch."

She smiled. "That would be great."


	6. Rat Race

**5\. Rat Race**

_September 9 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

Buffy strode briskly down a well illuminated corridor, muttering under her breath. She had chosen the grey skirt and lightweight cotton blazer to accommodate the unrelenting Louisiana heat, but her smart, button-up shirt was already pitted out. She was soaking through the fabric at an alarming rate. Beads of sweat dotted her hairline. She could feel them rolling down her spine, into her waistband, and there was just no way she would ever get used to the humidity. On her right, the hallway was lined with imposing wooden doors, floor to ceiling in height, each accompanied by their own nameplate and a panel etched with the working title of the occupant. A group of women in black suits emerged from an office up ahead, notebooks and laptops in hand, chattering animatedly amongst themselves about quarterly reports. Buffy dropped her gaze and swung around the corner sharply, short legs carrying her as fast as they could in her delicate heels. The hall immediately opened up, rolling out into a large work space packed with grey cubicles and desks. Men and women alike chattered into headsets, fingers clicking rapidly against their keyboards. The rush of noise filled her ears, nearly overwhelming her. She cussed sharply.

"Damnit!"

Why was the goddamn door so far away? She didn't even work on this floor. Was it the seventh? Buffy shook her head. Oz had told her twice already, but she just couldn't remember anything when her head was like this. She kept walking.

Farther up ahead, on the left hand side, she finally spotted what she was looking for. She quickened her pace, reaching out until her hands connected with the cold metal handle. It was like reaching the top of a mountain after a long hike. She turned and pushed, staggering out into the atrium, and the world opened up around. The building was 20 stories altogether, each floor forming a rectangular ring around the open core in the center where clear, glass elevators flew up and down. Cool air rushed into her lungs, and light streaming from the windows above washed over her pale skin. Buffy pressed her body against the railing.

It took a moment to remember what she was supposed to do.

Count to ten…

One…

Two…

Three…

...

She kept her eyes closed for longer than was probably necessary, seeing as it wasn't doing much good, but the pills were tucked away in her purse upstairs, and she didn't know what else to do. Buffy peeled her weary eyelids back and gazed down at the people scurrying to and from the elevators on the bottom floor. The screech of an espresso machine drifted up, and she could smell the aroma from the coffee bar in the corner by the front door. She would have loved to have coffee. The thought was comforting until it wasn't. Caffeine made her jittery now. These days, she was so wired that even a soda was too much. Her life had changed so much and it was the little reminders that killed her, the little things she didn't enjoy anymore. Her head began to spin again, and she stayed until the tremors got too bad. Someone would walk out and see her. If she didn't want to explain herself to an uncomfortable coworker, she had to go.

There were stairs, weren't there? Yes, there had to be. Her legs were already carrying her to the corner where a large grey door and a green exit sign offered her potential escape. She dodged the passing glances of a group of gangly men in white shirts. IT guys by the looks of it. Did they see her? Did they see her freaking out? Did they notice that she was shaking? Her mind began to race and she dug her heels harder down into the carpet, swaying on her feet. What would happen if someone saw her like this? Someone would realize what was happening. Everyone would know that she was sick.

Her hands landed firmly, desperately, on the metal door.

"Oh, thank God!" She burst into the empty stairwell as just her legs were finally giving way, throwing herself down on the steps.

It was cold and dank in the dim, cement space, and it made her skin clammy, until she was shivering as she struggled for breath. Her heart pounded, just like it always did, a merciless, relentless marching drum in her chest, urging her to war, rocking her petite frame so completely that she had once confused it for a heart attack. Her fingers and toes buzzed as adrenaline flooded her veins, losing the feeling in her extremities and her cheeks. Her vision swam with lights and spots. She pulled her legs up to her chest and pressed her forehead down into her knees. Her fingers wound their way into her hair and she pulled at the roots until it hurt, mumbling a mantra over and over again through gritted teeth like the crazed meth addicts that she saw in the park.

"I am so very calm indeed. I am so very calm indeed. I am so very…"

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"I am so very calm indeed. I am so very calm indeed."

Tears threatened around the edges of her vision.

"I am so very calm indeed. I am so very calm indeed. I am so very calm indeed. I am so-"

Her voice gave out. Her breathing routine broke down and she began to hyperventilate.

It wasn't working.

Fuck, it wasn't working.

Oh, God. The walls were closing in. She felt like a caged animal. She felt like she would be sick. Her heart was pounding harder than ever. Her head was swimming with images and sounds and bright lights, the face of the man on the podium, laughing as he fired his gun into the crowd, jeering at his victims like some beast fresh out of hell, horns flickering, teeth bared. A door slammed in the stairwell some floors below her, and Buffy nearly bit through her tongue. The tang of copper filled her mouth. She wrapped shaking arms around herself as the edges grew fuzzy, and the colors grew dull. A faint ringing filled her ears, and soon, apart from her racing heart and ragged breathing, it was all she could. Darkness swirled around her. Her skin prickled with a thousand tiny needles. Her head lolled back, falling until it struck the nearest cement step, and she saw stars. Her eyelids slipped shut.

She was going to suffocate.

"Oh my god!"

A door slammed.

"Buffy?! Ohmygod! Are you okay?!"

Firm hands were on her, shaking her, pressing against the damp skin under her chin, searching for a pulse, fumbling at the fabric over her chest, seeking out her heart. She could hear somebody breathing close to her ear, somebody trying to stay calm, trying to keep a level head.

"Buffy talk to me! What should I do? Should I call an ambulance?"

"No!" Buffy's eyes snapped open, and she cringed, momentarily blinded. "No, please."

"You were screaming," the woman said breathlessly. "Are you sure? Are you hurt?"

The small blonde shuddered and blinked away the shock of fluorescent light. She could feel the rough edges of the concrete steps digging into her back now. The bruise on the base of her skull was throbbing, and she felt very dizzy. Nauseous even. Kneeling over her, face still obscured in a halo of harsh light, was a woman with long, straight red hair. The woman's fingers were still pressed flush against the clammy swath of skin below her jaw, testing for a pulse.

"You can't call them," Buffy croaked, lifting a quivering hand to feel the bump behind her head, "they'll lock me away in a mental hospital for a week."

"Oh…" the woman seemed uncertain, but her voice was kind and gentle, almost faltering. There was nothing threatening about it.

Buffy continued to blink until her vision cleared a little, finally catching sight of her unwitting savior. "Wait...I know you...W-W…" She frowned. The name wouldn't come to her.

"Willow." The redhead smiled softly. "Did you hit the back of your head?"

"Yeah."

Buffy tried to sit up, but the other woman pushed her back down. "I think you might have a concussion."

"Oh. Not of the good, then."

Willow raised a brow and giggled. "No, not of the good."

Buffy studied the other woman carefully for the first time. She was thin and...willowy, taller than herself, but hardly a giant in the height department. Her choice of dress was modest, but flattering, a pair of slim red pants, crisp blue button-up, and grey cardigan, finished tastefully with a pair of navy blue ballet flats. She had green eyes, a cute, round nose, and dimples, and she looked very friendly and non-threatening, which was a huge plus.

"You work in IT, right?"

"You remembered!"

"Of course," Buffy smiled weakly, "you set up my computer when I first started here."

"It's just impressive," Willow continued, and frowned at her hands, "because most people don't remember me at first. I guess I'm just not very memorable! Not-not that I want to be, because I'm not exactly an extrovert, so I get nervous when I get a lot of attention."

"Um…" Buffy squinted at her.

"Anyway!" The girl continued, a bit too earnestly. "What happened just now? You were rolling around and screaming and it looked like you couldn't breathe!"

"A panic attack." Buffy winced as she rapidly became cognizant of the throbbing in her head. "I've been getting them a lot recently."

"Oh, sounds awful."

"Yeah, they are."

Buffy sniffed and wiped her nose. Words pressed up against her teeth like water threatening to spill over a dam. Suddenly, there were a lot of things she wanted to say about exactly how awful it really was. She felt like she could go on for hours about frayed nerves and lost sleep and the passionless march of daily life that was grinding her down. It was ridiculous. She had pushed all of her old friends away, moved to another state, and kept to herself for the better part of two months, and _now_ she was opening up to someone? A girl from IT that she had met approximately once? She wanted to slap herself. But Willow's kind expression was open and accepting, and it was obvious that she would listen, with rapt attention, to anything and everything Buffy decided to say. Was it possible to the know the intentions of a stranger in a matter of minutes? She liked to think so. She very much _wanted_ to think so.

Buffy lifted her head, carefully, taking every precaution as she stabilized herself on her elbows, and glanced down at her skirt.

Not totally ruined. Maybe this day wasn't going to be _the_ worst ever.

"Um," the redhead started, "I don't mean to pry or anything, but I was just kind of wondering since you were shouting about it and everything when I came in…"

Buffy looked up at her expectantly, lips pursed.

"I...what is a slayer, exactly?"

Buffy's muscles seized involuntarily and she was rocked with a wave of spasms and shudders. She launched herself off the steps, nearly bowling Willow over, and stumbled into the corner of the stairwell, where a large black, pvc pipe fitted with valves and red knobs ran from the ceiling overhead down through the bottom of the concrete landing. She wrapped her arms around herself and hugged tightly, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. Willow was on her feet in an instant, mouth agape, looking mildly horrified with herself. She reached out and took a hold of the blonde's shoulder.

"I'm so, so sorry, Buffy! I didn't know-"

"It's okay. It's okay." Her eyes snapped open to find the young IT technician gazing at her uncertainly. "I don't really know how to explain…"

"You don't have to."

"No, I mean… ugh," Buffy collapsed back against the wall, overcome with nausea. "You might have been right about that concussion."

"Are you gonna be sick?"

"God, I hope not. Gross."

"I can help you get to the bathroom, if you want."

"Thanks." Buffy breathed in slowly through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. A tense minute passed in silence until she felt like speaking again. "Do you remember that school shooting in Sunnydale last summer?"

"Yes?" The girl's voice was tentative.

"I was there."

"You were there?!"

"Yeah, I was graduating that day when those men showed up and started shooting at us."

"Oh my god." Willow's eyes were blurry and out of focus. Her grip on Buffy's shoulder went slack. Her voice sounded distant.

"The guy that started shooting, he was standing up on the stage, and he started yelling something about a slayer. I have no idea what he was talking about."

"It was in the news," Willow added distantly. "But they didn't really talk about that in the reports. I guess everyone assumed he was crazy or something."

Buffy's eyes dropped and her face went blank. "I didn't watch them."

An awkward moment of silence passed between them.

"How about you come downstairs with me?" Willow offered, taking hold of Buffy's arm. "It's quiet and dark down there, and I have snacks and drinks...oh! And a heating pad too. I'm sure Xander would love to meet you."

"Who's Xander?"

"My supervisor."

"Okay, sure." Her smile was weak and watery. "I'd be useless in my meetings right now anyway."

"Oh, will you get in trouble?"

"Maybe," Buffy mused. "I'll tell them I had to vomit. That usually works."

"This happens a lot?"

"My manager thinks I have a stomach condition…"

"Hm." Willow chewed on her thumbnail thoughtfully. "Well, can you take the stairs?"

Buffy nodded.

"Okay, take my arm. Let's go."

/ / /

The sun was high and the shadows were small in the stifling mid afternoon heat. The birds were scarce and quiet, tucked away in bushes and trees like tiny stowaways. Even the bugs were lying low, the shrill whine of their wings conspicuously absent under the cover of the tall oak trees planted in a row along the adjacent boulevard. Faith stalked along the perimeter of the parking lot, dodging between massive, gnarled tree trunks as her dark, brown eyes flitted amongst rows of nondescript sedans and trucks, scanning for the license plate number she had scrawled on the napkin in her hand. Across a small ocean of hot asphalt, a shiny new building fitted with tinted blue windows on all sides rose up out of the city block. It was at least 20 stories tall, and home to several different businesses, judging by the colorful signs installed here and there on its facade. The frantic lunch hour was long over, but stragglers continued to wander in and out of the main entrance, and Faith watched all of them closely, memorizing their movements like a hawk studying new hunting grounds.

Her phone buzzed, stuffed somewhere in the pocket of her camouflage cargo pants, vibrating against her silver-plated knife and emergency stake. She crouched low behind some bushes as a sweaty security guard rolled past on a beat up golf cart, fishing about in her pocket with slender, calloused fingers. Phones were useful, but they were also irritating, and she scowled at the unknown number on the screen as she moved to answer it.

"Lehane."

"_I just received a call from the most unexpected person. You'll never guess who it was_."

She glanced around suspiciously, keeping the little white golf cart within her sights. "Make it quick, G-man, I'm on site here."

"_Goodness, on site where_?"

"The world famous corporate headquarters of Allen &amp; Fox, LLC."

"_I'm not familiar with that name_."

An unmarked white van pulling into the parking lot from the southwest side caught the slayer's eye. "Neither am I. I'm trying to get familiar."

The van rolled to stop just beyond the main entrance to the office building. A man in a dark blue jumpsuit and white hardhat hopped out. Faith squinted as the man straightened his tool belt and shuffled over the main entryway. He came to a stop right outside the glass doors where he held his position, pretending to fuss with his phone as the van drove around to the other side. She watched as he reached up to his ear and attached a small bluetooth device. He looked around and did a quick, methodical scan of the parking lot before heading inside. Faith knew from experience that corporate offices didn't hire men in unmarked vans to do service work.

Somebody had beat her to the punch.

"Shit, G, I've got company. Make it quick."

"_Right, of course,_" the aging man cleared his throat over the line and continued hastily. "_I received a call from the personal secretary of Nobu Morimoto_."

"That demon yakuza boss in Japan?"

"_The very same_."

"What'd he want?"

"_He wanted to send us a warning. He has a witch under his protection, Tara Maclay, have you heard of her_?"

"Nope."

She watched the man in the jumpsuit very closely as he reached the front doors. Was he just maintenance maybe? Was she overreacting? She reached out with her slayer senses, trying to feel his energy.

"_This woman is a gifted clairvoyant, and she delivered a handful of ominous prophecies in her youth when she was imprisoned by the Family. Most significantly, she delivered a prophecy about…Faith, are you listening to me_?"

"Yeah, yeah."

His energy was ambiguous, but there wasn't enough to time to test it before he had slipped through the doors and out of sight. She reached up to pull herself one-handed into an oak tree overlooking the property. Her high tops scraped against the bark as she scrambled into the thick canopy and shuffled cautiously out onto the end of a thick limb. She bounced once, lightly, assessing whether or not it would hold her weight before lying down flat on her stomach along the branch.

"_What's all that noise_?"

"A tree."

"_Right_," Giles sniffed. "_Listen carefully, this part's important. This witch, Tara, delivered a prophecy about a slayer_."

"Uh huh. I think I know the one."

"_Really? You didn't mention anything on our last call."_

"I just found out yesterday."

"_And you didn't think to call me? Text me at least?_"

"G-"

"_Faith, you know the Council is breathing down my neck-"_

"G! I don't have a lot of time here, okay? You gonna tell me about the prophecy or not?"

"_Fine! Fine. The prophecy names a slayer powerful enough to break the balance and deliver mankind into a golden age_. _The wording of the prophecy seems to indicate that this is an event occurring in the present, but the wording is vague, of course._"

"Yeah, because what prophecy in the history of prophecies has ever been specific?"

"_Quite_. _Although I have to say, that shooting in California seems far less bizarre in light of this. They were searching for the girl in the prophecy_."

"Makes sense."

"_There are still so many questions that need to be answered. Such as, why haven't we heard of this girl before? Where has she been_?"

"Dunno, G."

"_Is it even possible for two slayers to be active at the same time? Are we actually dealing with a potential here? Because according to the prophecy, that would mean_…"

"That I have to die in order for the prophecy to come true."

"_Well...yes_."

"Hm."

"_Faith...we don't know yet that you're going to die._"

"Of course I'm going to die," she replied somberly. "Everybody dies eventually."

"_Maybe so, but it will never be easy for me to consider your death_." She imagined Rupert Giles re-adjusting his glasses as he said this. "_I _am _rather fond of you, after all_."

Using her enhanced slayer vision, Faith honed in two other men in matching blue jumpsuits and white hard hats, rounding the corner from the north side of the building. "So, what else did Nobu say?"

"_Three days ago, Angelus broke into the witch's apartment and threatened to kill the witch unless she revealed the identity of the slayer in the prophecy. He used an old Chinese charm to artificially induce a prophetic state, and she was forced to give the name, which she later shared with Nobu. He called to warn us. The slayer's name is_-"

"-Buffy Summers. Yeah, I heard from Dabuek." Faith was sweating bullets, even in her lightest denim jacket, and it was making her irritable. She pushed a wall of leaves out of her way, careful not to shake the branch too much. "I'm New Orleans right now, actually, outside this chic's office. She has some kind of desk job."

A stream of confused expletives burst from the Englishman on the other end, but Faith's keen eyes were fixed on the activity by the doorway, which had taken a decidedly sinister turn. The man had now been joined by a second, also in uniform, and he was definitely packing under his jumpsuit.

"_Why the hell did you not tell me all of this sooner_?!"

"I wasn't sure if I could trust my sources, okay?" Faith glanced around wildly, looking for more accomplices in the parking lot. "The underworld is buzzing with gossip about this Buffy chick."

"_The demons know her name_?"

"Only some of them. The vampires don't seem to know much, but Dabuek knew. I think it's only a matter of time before word gets out."

"Damnit_, this is terrible news. How did he find out_?"

"I dunno. I didn't stay around very long to chat. He seemed to think that the Family was sending thugs to attack this Buffy chick so I was sort of pressed for time."

"_At least tell me where you're going next time so I can help you research!_"

"Yeah, okay. Sorry. Listen, G, I gotta go. We're about to have a repeat of Sunnydale! Call you later!"

"_Faith, w_-!" She jammed the "end call" button so hard that it cracked the screen.

"Flimsy piece of shit."

The security guard had parked his golf cart and was getting out to speak with the duo standing watch by the main entryway. She stuffed the phone in her pocket and rolled off the branch, landing squarely on her feet like a cat. After a moment of deliberate hesitation, during which she confirmed that the men out front hadn't spotted anything suspicious, she crossed over the perimeter of the property and into the parking lot.

/ / /

Darrell Jones checked his phone for the 11th time that day, holding it stealthily against his leg under the tall, wooden desk. He was having a pretty rotten shift so far. His girlfriend was mad at him, again, and she wasn't returning any of his text messages. How was _he_ supposed to know that she didn't like sushi? Or that her mother was allergic to shellfish? It wasn't like they had had a conversation about it. Not that he could remember at least, although the ongoing silent treatment indicated otherwise. He tapped his heel impatiently against the marble floor, drinking his third cup of coffee, eyes following but hardly registering the faces that passed. It was taking an enormous amount of effort to concentrate on his job, slumped behind the security desk in the lobby of 2121 McAllister Plaza. Normally he would have felt lucky to have a job that didn't include serving food, but as he straightened his tie nervously, ignoring the way his skin itched in the cheap black suit, all he could think about was Kayla. It was going to take a small, jewelry-box-sized miracle to bring her around again.

"Man, are you still moping about your girlfriend?" Marcus clapped him hard on the shoulder as he rounded the desk, returning from a long lunch. "She's way too much trouble, D. You're in the dog house every week."

"Yeah, well, I screwed up bad."

"So, what else is new?" Marcus laughed. "Dude, she's got your balls tied in knots!"

Darrell rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to check his phone again. Should he call her maybe? Leave another voicemail and tell her how sorry he was? If only he didn't have to work he could go out and buy her a present, something nice and shiny.

"I hope the sex is worth it, bro, cuz that bitch is damn expensive."

"Shut up, Marcus, alright?" He rubbed his forehead. "I know she's outta my league, alright?"

"She ain't outta your league, dude, she just stuck up." The tall, lanky man adjusted the black, uniform tie hanging around his neck and straightened the lapels of his suit jacket. "I ain't never seen a bitch get so bent outta shape about the kinda shit you do. It's just not that bigga deal, you know what I'm sayin'? Shit's not even your fault and she screamin' about you like you the fuckin' Taliban."

Darrell sighed irritably. His eyes dropped to the panel of screens in front of him, streaming security footage from various locations inside and outside the building. It was nearing two in the afternoon, so most of the lunch crowd had returned their offices already, but a few stragglers lingered around the sofas on the north and south end of the lobby, and a handful of mailroom workers were smoking on out back near the service entrance. It had not been an exciting day so far.

"Excuse me?" A bottle blonde in a pale pink dress and white cardigan approached the desk, glancing around apprehensively at the impressive, marble room. "I'm looking for the office of Leon Hill?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Marcus smartly, straightening up. "I'll need your driver's license or some form of photo ID, please."

The woman dug around in an enormous white bag until she found her wallet. She offered him the license hastily, and he handed her a key card on a blue lanyard.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Marcus smiled indulgently. "You'll find Mr. Hill on the third floor, suite 305."

She tottered off towards the elevators in precariously tall heels, and Marcus continued to smile until she had passed out of sight. Darrell glowered at his fellow doorman. He wished he was half as charming.

"Mmm… that one's at least an eight," his coworker mused, biting his bottom lip. "What'chu think, D?"

"Hotter than the first wife," Darrell mumbled. Something on the screen piqued his interest. "Hey, wait a second. Are we getting maintenance done today?"

"I don't think so, why?"

Darrell pointed at the monitor. "Check these guys out."

Marcus leaned over and squinted. "Are they from the energy company?"

"Nah, those dudes wear green."

"Hey, Gary is out there talkin' to 'em."

"Get him on the radio."

His coworker reached over and grabbed a walkie talkie off the charger. "Gary, this is the front desk, do you copy?"

Darrell watched the screen carefully as the perimeter security guard grabbed his radio off his belt. "_Front desk, this is Gary, over_."

"Gary, who sent those guys in the hardhats?"

"_Harmon Elevator Services. They say they're here to fix the broken elevator on the north side._"

Marcus frowned and glanced over at Darrell. "How many guys does it take to fix an elevator?"

"Two at the most."

"That's what I figured."

"Harmon Elevator Services, right? I'll call the company and verify with them. Tell Gary to keep those guys outside."

Marcus leaned over his radio again. "Gary, this is the front desk. Tell those guys to wait outside with you while we verify their appointment, over."

"_Roger_."

"Excuse me."

Marcus glanced up sharply, head slowing and freezing in place as his eyes raked over the owner of the sultry voice that had interrupted him. The woman, a slender, athletic brunette wearing dark eye makeup and bright lipstick, winked at him suggestively and moved forward until she was leaning over the desk, cleavage shifting suggestively under her tight, black tank top.

"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

She smiled suggestively and tossed some wavy hair over her shoulder.

"I'm looking for Buffy Summers."

/ / /

Angus glanced over at Eoin as he fiddled with the crackling radio. They were waiting in the the front of the van, watching the parking lot carefully for any signs of the portly security guard. Both wore the same blue jumpsuits, with wireless bluetooth speakers attached to their ears. Eoin groaned and snatched a blue, cardboard box off the dashboard. He flipped up the top, grabbed a holofoil rectangle, and popped the stick of wintermint gum in his mouth. He crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it out the window.

"It's bloody hot, mate. I hate this feckin' state."

Angus scoffed. "Count yer blessings. At least it's not August. Reckon my Irish balls would melt right off."

"We're not meant to be in the south. I miss the dreary ole' homeland, with the rain and the clouds in the middle of the damn summer, and all that bollocks."

"Feckin' right."

"We had a heatwave in Ireland once? Remember that?"

"Ha, yeah! Seven consecutive days of sun? 'Course I remember!"

"It was 33 celsius! Grandmum sat in an ice water bath fer two days."

"That's the life, mate."

"Too right."

Angus pressed a button on his cell phone and spoke into it. "How's it goin' there, Spikey? Need any assistance?"

Inside the building, crouched over a panel of wires and switches in a stark control room, Spike's fingers worked quickly. Behind him, the scorched corpse of a security officer smouldered under a wobbly, metal desk. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as he leaned back on his heels and wiped his brow. He tapped a button on his earpiece.

"It's a goer, mate. Is everyone in position?"

The radio crackled. "We've got men on both doors."

"Perimeter?"

"Sharpshooters are ready."

Spike chuckled merrily, pale face breaking into an impish grin. "Right then, chaps. Let's light 'em up."

/ / /

"You work with Oz?!" Willow's warm, green eyes seemed to glaze over and she leaned back in her squeaky desk chair. "What's he like?"

Buffy munched thoughtfully on a stale jelly donut. "Um, he's...kind of stoic. Calm. Very calm, and um...nice."

"He's nice?" Willow smiled dizzily. "Oh, he sounds awesome."

"Well, he makes some pretty awesome spreadsheets, I can tell you that. And he's from Colorado."

"Oh, Colorado! Wow! What else?"

Buffy hopped up on the redhead's desk, crossing her legs modestly in her short business skirt. "I don't know. I really don't know him that well. I've only been here a few weeks and…" she ducked her head, almost embarrassed with herself, "I haven't exactly gone out of my way to make friends in the office."

Willow scrunched up her cute, round nose. "What brings you here anyway? If I lived in California I'm pretty sure I would want to stay there."

Buffy sighed, eyes traveling off involuntarily down the dim aisle of cubicles. It was indeed darker in the basement. Willow had informed her that the IT department saw no need to keep all of the obnoxious fluorescent lights on during the day, hence the batcave look. It was spooky, and also a bit relaxing, much less formal than her wing upstairs.

"I love California," she offered her new friend a weak smile, "but...after the shooting I needed to get out. Like, I needed to start over, press the reset button or something."

"Makes perfect sense," Willow replied, nodding vigorously.

"I applied to jobs all over the country. Allen &amp; Fox were the first ones to give me a solid offer, so I took it, and here I am."

"Well, I for one am glad that you came here."

Buffy's heart fluttered. "Really?"

"Of course!" Willow's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. "You seem like a really cool person, Buffy!"

"Thanks, Will." The blonde's smile was watery and weak. She wiped her eyes, steadying herself against the wall of the grey cubicle. "Ugh, I'm still pretty shaky."

"You don't look 100%." A voice floated over from the aisle, where a clean shaven man in a button down shirt approached, studying Buffy curiously. He had dark hair and deep brown eyes, and innocent, if somewhat young, features. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met."

Willow jumped in hastily. "Xander, this is Buffy. She works upstairs."

The man extended his hand to Buffy, who accepted it gracefully. "Pleasure to meet you, Buffy. I'm Will's supervisor, and resident fixer of all problems technical in this establishment."

"Charmed," the petite blonde said distantly, feeling woozy once again.

"Oh, the pleasure's all mine, believe me." The man grinned, drawing a disgruntled "harumph" from Willow, who had folded her arms across her chest and now glared at him.

"You'll have to excuse him," she said to Buffy quickly, speaking through gritted teeth. "He can't get enough attention from the fairer sex."

"Did someone say sex?" Xander winked, smile dimming slightly under the red-head's withering stare. "Oh, give me a break, Wills. Your new friend is gorgeous. No offense, Buffy," he added quickly.

"None taken," she replied thickly, wobbling noticeably as she struggled to stabilize herself against the desk.

"What did you say was wrong with her, Will?"

"A concussion, we think. She fell on the stairs."

"Well, that's no good! Why don't you take her across the street? There's a medical center over there."

"Oh, yeah," Willow said slowly, "I didn't think of that." She turned apprehensively toward the woozy blonde who was examining the X-Men action figures lined up on the metal shelf above the desk. "What do you think, Buffy? Do you want to go?"

Buffy plucked the Wolverine model out of the line-up and ran her petite fingertips over his claws. "Whatever you guys think is best. My head is all...fluffy and...pixely."

Xander cocked his head to one side. "Pixelated?"

"I don't think I should be decision making girl, right now," Buffy muttered quickly, replacing Wolverine on the shelf and reaching for Cyclops.

Xander glanced sideways at Willow. "I don't think the defendant is fit to stand trial, your Honor."

The redhead pursed her lips and nodded in agreement.

/ / /

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The secretary said she's in a meeting right now."

Faith glared at the lanky, black security guard who was apparently unable to keep his eyes off her chest. She was getting really irritated really had tried three times to call Ms. Summers' desk with the line going through to voicemail each time.

"Okay, I don't have time for this. Where's the meeting?"

He smiled apologetically. "It could be anywhere, ma'am. We don't have that kind of information."

"Well, can you find out?"

"I'm not exactly authorized to-"

"_Look_," Faith slammed her hand down on the marble countertop, eyes flashing, "this is kind of an emergency. There are people trying to hurt this woman...Buffy, and I need to warn her."

The security guard, who looked more and more dubious as the conversation went on, furrowed his brow, studying the woman more closely than before. "Perhaps you should call the police, ma'am."

The brunette snorted and leaned back, folding her arms. "This is _so_ above their pay grade."

Marcus glanced over at Darrell, who was on the phone with the elevator company, and made eye contact with him briefly. They had had plenty of run ins with jealous ex-girlfriends or housewives convinced that their husbands were slipping it to the secretary. He was starting to suspect that the woman in front of him was operating with similar motivations.

The sudden screech of the fire alarm, wailing out through the lobby, brought the whole conversation to an abrupt halt. He watched with fascination as the brunette's face twisted up in a potent mixture of rage and fear.

"Motherfucker!" She barked, looking around wildly at the emergency lights that were flashing on the walls. "Shit! Fucking shitshitshit!"

Darrell covered his ears and slammed the phone down, shouting irately over the blaring alarm. "We weren't supposed to have a fire drill today!"

Faith was still casting around erratically, a steady stream of expletives pouring from her pretty lips as Marcus looked on in amazement. He grabbed his coworker by the shoulder and pulled him close.

"I have a bad feeling about this, man."

"Me too! This wasn't fucking scheduled!"

"No, I mean, like, _bad_."

Darrell eyed him suspiciously. "How bad, bro?"

Marcus winced as the volume of the alarms increased and looked down at the security screens. "What happened to Gary?"

The security guard was ominously absent, as were the three helmeted elevator workers previously posted at the front entryway.

"I dunno, but check this out!" Darrell pointed at the screen for the control room where the security tape showed a guard, perched calmly at his desk, drinking coffee. "The fuck is he doing just sitting there?"

Marcus squinted at the fuzzy image. "It's fake!"

"Fake?"

"Yeah, it's a loop!"

"How do you know?"

"Because," he tapped the screen with his pointer finger, "Jovon's shift ended an hour ago!"

"No shit, you're right!"

Marcus looked up to find that the strange brunette had disappeared, but he didn't have any time to dwell on it. The desk phone was ringing off the hook, three lines illuminated already as office managers called downstairs for some kind of instructions.

"What do we tell them?"

"Evacuate the building!" Darrell shouted to be heard over the noise. "And we should probably call the police, too!"


	7. Out of the Fire

_7.3.15_

_Moving right along, folks. Up next, more hijinks and heart-pounding action in chapter six._

_Enjoy!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**6\. Out of the Fire**

_September 9 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

The fire, it turned out, was real. Within minutes, black smoke was billowing out through broken windows on the first floor, shrouding the marble lobby in a grey haze. Faith had stayed as long as she dared, but the distinct click of the sprinklers overhead creaking to life brought her to her senses. She hightailed it outside, cursing loudly amidst hoards of wet, disgruntled office workers. A crowd of men and women streamed into the parking lot, led by office managers and safety supervisors toward meeting points on the perimeter of the property, their frantic voices blending together in a dull roar. The sound of sirens, wailing in the distance, could be heard over the crowd, as well as the coughing and choking of people still emerging from the front doors. She caught snippets of passing conversations.

"-never seen anything like this before…"

"I didn't see George! Wasn't he in the breakroom with-"

"-completely ruined my Chanel suit! This thing cost a fortune!"

Faith hopped up on the large stone fountain in the center of the cement walkway and used her enhanced eyesight to scan the flood of harried workers, congregating at the far end of the parking lot. Her gaze bounced from blonde head to blonde head, assessing, scrutinizing, but it was difficult now that everyone's hair was wet. She pulled a folded picture from her pocket, creased from use and study, and traced the features of the girl smiling back at her. On the back, in smeared pen, she had recorded the woman's height, weight, and last known address in California. It had been entirely too easy to obtain records from UC Sunnydale's server, but time had been against her. There hadn't been a chance to conduct more thorough research.

Movement from the rooftop on the building across the street grabbed her attention. She narrowed her eyes and squinted against the sunlight until her gaze focused on a head, a human head, covered with a black skull cap, peaking just above the concrete retaining wall of the high rise business hotel. The long, slender barrel of a rifle poked out beside him, and a shiver ran down her spine.

"Oh, super!" she growled. "Snipers."

She turned slowly and cautiously toward the other structures nearby, tracing their rooftops for additional snipers. She picked out two more. One perched on high rise condominiums, another camped out on a non-descript building directly to the south. There had to be more on the other side. She turned her sights again to the parking lot, sifting through the crowd, scanning the the perimeter of the property. There were men posted at regular intervals beneath the trees, some in hardhats and jumpsuits, others in plain clothes. She wasn't stupid. To the trained eye, their intent was very clear. They were hoping to intercept the Summers girl, prevent her from leaving the property, as she had presumably done back in Sunnydale during the shooting. This plan, it seemed, was far more subtle. It made her wonder if these were even the same goons.

A blaring siren broke her concentration. Two fire trucks approached from the main boulevard, drawing light applause and sporadic cheers from the gathering of sodden office workers in the parking lot. Lights flashing, they cut their horns as they turned in from the street and rolled to a stop with squealing brakes in front of 2121 McAllister Plaza. The red doors were flung open and firefighters burst from the trucks, unrolling hoses, unloading equipment, and ushering stragglers towards the designated safety area. Still perched on the fountain, Faith immediately caught their attention.

"I need you to come down from there, ma'am," said a young firefighter with a square jaw and a southern accent.

He beckoned for her and held out his hand, which she accepted politely, pretending to struggle off the slippery sculpture. The man was sweating profusely in a heavy, brown, fireproof coat and pants, lined around the elbows, ankles, and waist with reflective green stripes. On his back he wore a standard black oxygen tank, and on his head a yellow-billed helmet with a clear plastic visor.

"Are you alright, ma'am?"

"Just looking for my friends," Faith replied, infusing a bit of strain into her tone.

The firefighter nodded. "We'll make sure everyone gets out safely."

He lead her to the edge of the parking lot before turning back to the building's front entrance. She used this opportunity to steal around the side through the grass and the flower beds, dodging additional firefighters and the influx of arriving police officers with a combination of selective hearing and super speed. It was less crowded on the south side, away from the noisy fanfare of emergency operations. Faith kept herself out of sight as much as possible, moving fluidly between large bushes and trimmed hedges. Thank god for corporate landscaping. She didn't know exactly who she was looking for. She had never laid eyes on Buffy Summers before, but simple observation had often proved a useful ally in the past. The assailants were so focused on finding this hypothetical slayer that they obviously hadn't anticipated outside competition. If she waited patiently, and watched their movements, she would be able to get to Buffy before they got to her.

Hopefully.

The element of surprise was on her side, anyway.

She was halfway around the side near the service entrance and loading dock when the sound of a heavy, metal door slamming against concrete caught her attention. Voices floated up from the bottom of a stair well carved into the side of the building.

"Xander! Be careful!"

"I am being careful! I'm generally a careful guy, you know."

"You call hitting Buffy's head on the doorway careful?"

Buffy? _The_ Buffy?

Faith almost burst out laughing. She couldn't believe her luck. Things were never this easy. She darted out of the bushes, toward the staircase, and leapt dramatically off the top step, flying fifteen feet through the air before landing gracefully on both feet in front of the basement fire exit. Dry, brown leaves scattered around her boots as the distinct smack of rubber against pavement echoed off the water-stained walls of the stairwell. She adjusted the aviators that had slipped down her nose and looked up to find a trio of bedraggled office workers, sopping wet from head to toe, gaping at her with stunned, dumbfounded expressions.

Faith was still dry, unlike Buffy and her coworkers, and she looked entirely out of place in her high tops, camouflage cargo pants, black tank top, and faded denim jacket. She wore a black, drawstring backpack on her muscular shoulders, and she scoffed audibly as she gave Buffy a once over.

"110 lbs? You look like you'd be 110 lbs _soaking _wet."

"I _am _soaking wet," said Buffy, faintly.

Faith just snorted.

The other woman, a willowy redhead, shifted her feet into a more defensive stance and pulled the blonde's arm tighter around her shoulder. "Who are you?"

"No one you would know."

"Enlighten us." The man accompanying them spoke coolly, tall, with a soft, but average build, and a dark hair plastered to his forehead.

The slayer studied each of them in turn before replying. "You first."

"So, Mexican standoff, huh?" The man flashed her a wry smile. "Nice."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Is she Buffy Summers?" She nodded lightly at the woman in question.

"Why do you want to know?" The redhead demanded. She turned to the blonde, whose wet, foamy hair was steadily dripping onto a now transparent white blouse. "Do you know her?"

Buffy may have been concussed and delirious, but she was cognizant enough to shake her head. She was just as lost as the rest of them.

"Look," The redhead said, rapidly losing patience, "our friend is hurt and she needs medical attention. So, we're going to take her up there and find some paramedics."

"Um, no! You're definitely _not_ going to do that." Faith threw a quick glance over her shoulder. "You can't take her up there. She's in danger."

"The hell we can't!" The man exclaimed, "Who the hell do you-"

"Faith Lehane," she replied, lowering her voice. "You?"

He blinked. "Xander...and Willow," he gestured at his redheaded coworker, who only scowled in response. "I only met Buffy today. She's Willow's friend."

Willow bit her lip. "I wouldn't exactly say we're friends. We only met two hours ago."

"We can be friends," Buffy interjected, slurring her speech. "I like you guys. We should all be friends."

Xander shrugged. "Well, I'm in."

Willow sighed. "Me too.'

"What exactly is wrong with her?" Faith asked slowly, glancing between them.

"She has a concussion," Willow supplied grudgingly, "but not because of the fire. She fell on the stairs earlier, and I found her and brought her down to the basement."

"Shit." Concern flashed across the brunette's face. "Well, it's a really good thing you didn't go out the front door, because there are a bunch of scary dudes upstairs looking for her right now."

"What kind of scary dudes?" Xander asked, brow creasing.

"_Armed_ scary dudes."

His eyes widened, almost comically, and his mouth fell open.

Willow brushed several errant strands of wet hair out of her face. "Do you have any proof of this? I didn't hear any gunshots or _dangerous _sounds coming from upstairs."

"I...fuck. Not exactly."

"So this could just be a practical joke, right?" she turned to Xander, who was still, apparently, dumbfounded. "Right?"

"Um...I dunno, Will."

"And why would they be after Buffy anyway?" She turned back to the blonde, whose pupils were dilated and unfocused. "Are you some kind of trust fund baby or Norwegian princess or something?"

The blonde wagged her head back and forth.

Faith sighed and stepped closer to them. "I don't have time for this- Buffy!" she raised her sunglasses so their eyes could meet directly. "Does the word 'slayer' mean anything to you?"

Buffy shuddered and Willow blanched.

"Is that a yes?"

The blonde nodded faintly, eyes boring into Faith's with unusual intensity. "That's what they were looking for...last time. Are those men here again?"

White lies right? Did it matter if these were the exact same men trying to kill Buffy? Probably not.

Faith nodded.

"Oh," Buffy's expression darkened considerably, and she hesitated, seeming to debate something with herself. "Do you know… What is a slayer?"

Faith's chest clenched painfully.

One girl in all the world.

"Me," she murmured, replacing her sunglasses. "It's kind of a long story and I don't have time to explain. I have to get you out of here before those assholes figure out where we are."

Willow cut in. "Aren't there firetrucks out there? Why can't we just flag down the firefighters."

"Because I don't know what team they play for, and there are snipers on the rooftops across the street."

"Snipers?!" Xander's voice climbed a whole octave.

"We either stay down here and wait it out, and risk getting caught, or sneak her off the property."

Willow's eyes were swimming with questions, but she seemed to accept this, and Xander was quick to follow suit. "I don't know why I'm going along with this since you really haven't given me any reason to believe you, but...what's the plan?"

Faith ran her hand through her hair. "I really wasn't planning on Buffy being incapacitated. Not that I was planning on any of this bullshit." She gestured in the general direction of the commotion. "So, we're gonna improvise."

She dropped to one knee and slung the backpack off her shoulders. Prying it open with sure fingers, she immediately began rummaging through an assortment of standard, espionage related accoutrements: a small pair of binoculars, black rope, a compact grappling hook, rolls of cloth bandages and salve, goggles, ammo, a large, black thermal with long sleeves, and a steel grey beanie. But there were weirder things, too: a couple of sharp wooden stakes, plastic vials of water with gold crosses emblazoned on the front, and what appeared to be a silver chain. Willow and Xander exchanged glances.

"You're not like, oh, I dunno," Xander eyed her warily, "_crazy_ are you?"

Faith tossed the shirt and the beanie at Willow. "Not yet, Xan-man, but gimme' a few more years of this shit and I'll be pissing my hospital gown in a padded room."

He winced.

"Red, help Buffy get into that shirt and use the hat to cover up her hair."

"Won't she look suspicious wearing a beanie in this weather?"

"Her hair is a dead give away. You have a better idea?"

"Plenty!" Willow retorted, forcefully. "Like not listening to random weirdos who come flying out of nowhere and start talking about snipers and armed gunmen trying to kidnap a secretary!"

"Legal assistant," Buffy croaked, but she went ignored.

"Not helping, Red."

"How do I know that you're not the kidnapper?! What if this is all a trick?!"

"I'm not a kidnapper! Do I fucking looking like a kidnapper?!"

"I don't know! Kind of!"

Faith shot her an exasperated look.

"Well, how would I know? I don't even know what kidnappers look like!"

"You watch TV, don't you?!"

Xander leaned over and elbowed Willow, who looked increasingly like she was going to start throwing punches if Faith opened her mouth one more time. She relaxed just enough for him to to get a word in edgewise.

"Guys, I have an idea." Willow and Faith glared at him expectantly, while Buffy's head just lolled in his general direction. "Well...um, first of all, Faith, do you have a gun?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Why don't you, uh, give it to me?" Faith crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. Xander rushed on. "Just so that Willow will trust you."

After a moment's hesitation, the brunette complied, albeit reluctantly. "Fine, but I'm taking out the rounds."

She reached back into the waistband of her baggy pants and pulled out a chrome .45 with a textured, black handle. The sun glinted off its silver barrel as she dropped the ammo cartridge into the palm of her hand. As she watched, Willow was startled to notice a faint web of scars on Faith's skin. Raised white lines criss-crossed on the woman's hands and trailed up into the sleeves of her denim jacket. Faith hardly noticed Willow's perturbed expression. She pocketed the cartridge and handed the gun, now disarmed, to Xander.

"You can take one of my knives, too, if it makes you feel any better." She smirked.

Xander just examined the gun. "The serial number's been filed off. Where'd you get this?"

"Took it from some punk in Cleveland who tried to jack my bike."

He snorted. "That's exactly what it looks like."

"Right?"

"What's the second-of-all?" All eyes turned to Buffy, who was still draped over Willow's narrow shoulders. "Xander, what's the second-of-all?"

"Oh, um, yeah." He scratched the back of his neck with the barrel of the silver gun. "So, second of all, I am now going to walk up the stairs, _alone_, and go find my car. Then I am going to get in it, and drive it over here. When I pull up, you all pile in the back seat with Buffy and we'll speed off like badass secret agents."

"Wow." Willow said blankly. "I actually like that idea."

"Me too." Faith smirked again, but her shoulders relaxed. "Where'd you park?"

He pointed west, away from the melee up front.

"Awesome. You go do that Xan-man, but try not to look suspicious."

"Don't worry, I always look suspicious." He winked as he pulled out his shirttail and tucked his gun into the back of his dress pants, making sure the black handle was covered. "Back in a jif, ladies!"

As he bounded up the stairs and out of sight, Faith turned to Willow and sighed. The redhead just eyed her warily.

"Relax, Red. I'm seriously not a kidnapper."

"So, who are you then?"

"One of the good guys."

Buffy, who was now swaying on her feet like a frond of seaweed caught in an ocean current, nodded her head and mumbled in agreement.

"Whatever," said Willow, curtly.

"Cool. So...help me get this hat on her head?"

"Fine."

/ / /

Sputtering and coughing, Spike thrust open a rusty door slathered with layers peeling grey paint and stumbled onto the roof of 2121 McAlister Plaza. The sun was high and bright, and he winced, shielding his eyes with a wet, dripping forearm. His head was covered with foam, and his jumpsuit was now completely waterlogged, nearly twice its original weight. The straps weighed heavily on his lean, athletic shoulders. He bent down, and reached into his boot. His hand emerged with a butterfly knife, which he quickly flicked open and used to cut the straps of the sodden uniform. It had been too large to begin with, and now it slid down his torso with a sickening squelch, pooling in a dark, soggy mass at his ankles. Beneath it he had worn only black track shorts and a grey tshirt that was soaked through down to chest level. He stepped out of the jumpsuit and trudged over to the ledge, kicking gravel aside with his boots as he went.

"Sneak in and set a fire, Spikey. Just cut the power, Spikey. You won't get wet, don't worry." He sneered into the wind. "Wankers."

He peered down at the fire crew below, hustling to and from the building like ants in little yellow hats. Black smoke rose lethargically from a misfortunate storage closet on the north side, and a team of men supporting a fire hose raced over to douse it. The backup sprinkler system had been unexpected (and uncomfortable), but it had at least emptied the building, if nothing else.

The bluetooth device in his ear beeped. Spike reached up and tapped it.

"_That you, Spike_?"

"Her majesty, the Queen of England here." His gazed bounced up to the rooftop of the hotel across the street.

"_Right. You sorta look like her, mate_."

"But I don't look nearly as good in a sun hat, yeah?"

"_Why d'you think we keep 'er around_?"

He grinned and pulled a soggy pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his athletic shorts. His skin was drying fast, but it took several more snaps than usual before a bright yellow flame burst from his fingertips.

"You lads sighted the girl yet?"

"_Nothing yet_."

Spike gritted his teeth, and glared at the figure in the distance. "We confirmed that she was in the building when the alarm went off."

"_I know, but_-"

"She's here somewhere, John! And if you idiots don't find her, Angelus will cut off our nads with a rusty saw and serve them up at his next dinner party on a silver platter!"

"_Vivid description_."

"We'll be royally fucked, J! Fucked!"

"_Sean reckons she knew we were coming_."

"And who the fuck would have told her?"

"_Dunno, but our list of enemies isn't exactly short, now is it_?"

Spike's hands burst into flames, consuming his cigarette in seconds as he struggled to control his anger. The last bits of moisture evaporated off his skin in a cloud of steam and he began to glow.

"_Spike_! _You alright, mate_? _Don't change_! _You'll melt your bluetooth_!"

The mercenary grit his teeth and held up his arm as high as he could, two fingers prominently displayed in a flaming 'V' formation to his friend on the opposite roof.

"_Gorgeous. Gone and got all wet for me, have you_?"

"Oh, fuck off!"

Delighted laughter flowed through the device in his ear, but Spike had visibly relaxed and was better for it. The last thing he wanted to do was put the soggy jumpsuit back on after he'd burned up his regular clothes in a fit of fiery rage. He retrieved another cigarette from his pocket and lit it on his hand. It was nothing but a nervous habit. Nicotine was a weak, human narcotic, not nearly potent enough to affect him. But, his years spent with the hard-drinking, hard-hitting, oft-smoking ranks of the IRA had ingrained some habits so deep that they were impossible to uproot, if for no other reason than that they made him nostalgic for a time when he had been an important instrument in a larger machine of chaos and destruction.

The 20th century had been a delightful century.

His earpiece crackled again. "_I've spotted something_."

"That you, Sean?"

"_Yeah_. _Silver Jeep approaching the loading bay on the south side of the building._ _Unidentified man with dark hair driving. He's alone. _

"Armed?"

"_Can't tell_."

"Where are Eoin and Angus?"

Eoin's voice chimed in. "_Parked on the north side_. _We've got eyes on the service entrance there._"

"Drive around and investigate."

Sean's voice interrupted Eoin's reply. "_Three figures emerging from a stairwell. Looks like three women. One in the middle appears to be hurt. Redhead, brunette, and...the other is wearing a hat._"

Spike tossed his cigarette over the wall and jogged toward the south side of the building, kicking up gravel behind his combat boots. "Because the Summers girl is blonde!"

John's voice interrupted. "_Why would the slayer be hurt_?"

"I have no bloody idea. She could be faking it!"

"_Confirmed!_" Sean reported. "_The middle girl is the slayer_! _They're loading her in the car_!"

Spike broke into a sprint. "Shoot her, your idiot!"

"_Acquiring target_."

"Now, damnit!"

A clear shot rang out in the air, followed immediately by the sound of a roaring engine and squealing tires. Spike reached the south wall and leaned over just in time to see the Jeep pealing out toward the main boulevard. Two more shots rang out in succession, and fragments of shattered glass littered the road behind the fleeing car, but it was quickly obscured from sight by the large elm trees that surrounded the border of the property and lined the street. No more shots were taken from the snipers, who had already drawn the attention of the police and fire crew at the front entrance. Someone was shouting orders through a megaphone down below, and he caught sight of frantic office workers taking cover behind parked cars. Eoin and Angus appeared in the unmarked white van, speeding around the corner and onto the street with no regard for the flow of traffic behind them. They nearly collided with a green Audi, honking furiously as it swerved to avoid them.

Spike screamed in frustration, gathered a ball of blue fire in his palm, and hurled it at the trees blocking his view. They immediately burst into flames.

"_No, mate! No fire!_" John was pleading with him on the earpiece. "_Our balls on a silver platter, remember?_"

Seething, Spike tapped his headset and spoke in clipped tones to his remaining crew. "Eoin and Angus are out of range. Everyone else, pack up and get out."

A chorus of affirmations rang out over the line.

"Brayden, remove the ground team. Be discrete."

"_Aye_."

"Everyone regroup at the hotel in an hour."

He ripped off his bluetooth and stuffed it in the pocket of his shorts. Thick smoke rose in a boiling black cloud from the blazing trees and he smiled in satisfaction for a moment, but it didn't last. Quickly, he stripped off his shirt, shorts, and briefs, and stepped out of his boots. He balled up his clothes, stuffing them hastily into his boots, along with his knife, and dropped the whole lot over the wall onto a hedge twenty stories below. Spike gazed grimly down at his naked body. Under normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed the change far more. There were few other sensations that could compare. It felt amazing, like emerging from a cramped container into crisp mountain air, like stripping off an old, moldering cast after months of itching and scratching, like a whole body orgasm that was accompanied not by exhaustion, but by a surge of power through every muscle and cell.

These weren't normal circumstances, unfortunately.

His skin began to glow, and suddenly, like a match struck against sandpaper, he was consumed, shrouded completely in a ball of fire. Strength flowed into his limbs, now charred and blackened by the heat. Hopping up onto the ledge, he aimed for an ideal landing spot down below, steering away from the bushes and anything else that was flammable. He leapt straight out into the air and plummeted toward the ground, flames whipping around his body as he descended. He landed on a bare patch of grass and rolled, morphing back into his human figure at once. The smoldering track behind him was all that remained of his transformation when he came to a stop, flat on his back and naked in the bright sunlight.

"Bloody hell."

He lay there for a moment or two, recovering from the disorienting feeling that always accompanied a change back into his human body, but it didn't last long. He climbed to his feet and ducked into the bushes where his things had landed. As he was pulling on his shorts, a black Cadillac sqealed up alongside the narrow lawn and honked. Brayden, a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man, leaned out the driver side window.

"Git yer dress on, Spike! The cops are comin' round this way!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Spike darted toward the SUV, carrying his boots and shirt in hand. The back door was thrown open and a pair of hands shot out of the gloom to drag him inside. He hoisted himself up onto the leather seat and gripped the headrest in front of him as Brayden slammed his foot on the gas pedal. Cole, a stocky youth with dirty blonde hair and green eyes clapped him on the shoulder and slid back into his own seat. Spike just busied himself with the rest of his clothes, shimmying into his shirt rather awkwardly in the confined space. They rode in silence for several minutes as Brayden haphazardly maneuvered the Cadillac through the crowded streets of downtown New Orleans, bobbing and weaving around tourists, business people, and taxis on Canal Street. A police cruiser passed on the opposite side with lights flashing, and everyone tensed for a moment, but it passed without incident. It wasn't until they'd turned onto a freeway entrance ramp and merged onto 10 West that Brayden broke the silence.

"Any word from Eoin and Angus, then?"

"You've been in the car with me, mate. Did you hear the phone ring?"

Cole snorted, but Brayden was not amused. "Ya don't have to be a dick about it."

"And why not?" Spike shot back, indignation evident. "This day has been utter shite. Not only did I fail to capture the slayer, but I've been babysitting you thundercunts! Not ideal, yeah? At least tell me we got a license plate number or something?"

The car was silent once again.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Spike's earpiece began to beep and he tapped it. "Spike here, lord of all that is hot and fiery. The fuck you want?"

"_It's Angus_."

"Tell me you have good news."

"_Oh, so we're gonna fight, are we_?"

Spike ground his teeth. "What happened."

"_We lost them_."

"Fucking great."

"_And, if I'm being honest-_"

"Oh, yes!" Spike interrupted angrily, "please do be _honest_!"

"_We never actually found them in the first place. We've been driving around, trying to pick up the trail, but they've disappeared."_

"Did you at least get a plate number?"

"_No_…"

Angus started to sputter an apology, but Spike didn't hear it. The bluetooth device had already begun melt against his ear. He ripped it off and crushed it in his fist. Cole looked on with mild amusement, and Brayden chuckled darkly from the front seat.

"Try not to burn the leather, mate. This car is brand new."


	8. Into the Frying Pan

_7.14.15_

_I've gotten some lovely reviews here recently. Thank you all for your kind words! They have inspired me to work a little faster for ya'll. _

_Enjoy chapter 7!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**7\. Into the Frying Pan**

_September 9 - New York City, New York_

It was unseasonably warm in New York City. The parks were crowded, the tourists were happy, and the locals cruised around in shorts and sundresses even as September waned into October. There were no iconic shots of happy children playing beneath the spray of red fire hydrants, but the weather channel was having a field day, and the news anchors on the morning show had speculated about the 'impact of climate change' yet again, this time with a guest starring climatologist from NYU, and a rotating cast of brash commentators arguing about public policy. It was impossible to have a conversation with anyone in New York that didn't directly or indirectly reference the recent heatwave, and the street vendors continued to sell out of iced tea.

Across town in Brooklyn Heights, tucked back in an alleyway that reeked of urine and garbage, Rupert Giles stood vigil at the service entrance of an Italian restaurant, rocking on the balls of his feet. He studied his reflection in the brackish pools of oily water that had gathered around the steps, mind turning furiously. The afternoon had grown late, and the setting sun cast long shadows behind the buildings on Manhattan Island. He checked his watch yet again, having no desire to stay in such an unsanitary location location after nightfall. Fouler things than roaches and rodents came out to feed in the dark. He shivered, despite the cloying humidity, and continued shifting from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

At length, the sound of crisp footfalls at the mouth of the alley drew his attention away from his own worries. A sinister figure appeared, clad head to foot in black, leather riding gear. He wore a motorcycle helmet with a tinted visor drawn down, boots, and black gloves. Not an inch of skin peeked through his rather conspicuous disguise.

"Mr. Trick, I presume," said the Watcher steadily, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket.

The dark figure nodded.

"You're quite tardy, I was expecting you at least an hour ago."

A muffled voice answered from beneath the helmet. "I was delayed." Mr. Trick lifted his tinted visor, revealing brown eyes and rich, chocolate skin. "Not a fan of the sun."

Giles responded with a curt nod. "Understandable."

"Do you have the Council's payment?"

With great care, Mr. Giles removed a long, slender vial from the pocket of his coat and held it up in the dim light. A foggy liquid, purple in hue, swished about behind the glass.

"As promised, an elixir devised by Eoforhild himself," Giles announced proudly. "The recipe was passed down to us by a clan of druids and hidden in a monastery for centuries. It will cure any ailment, Mr. Trick, race and breed notwithstanding."

In the secure shadow of the alleyway, the vampire unzipped his leather coat and reached inside. He withdrew a tattered papyrus scroll, undid the grimy string that bound it, and unrolled it carefully. Rupert watched with great excitement and anxiety, aware that it could well break apart in the demon's hands before he had the chance to read it. Once unfurled, the watcher could see the ancient Greek letters printed on its surface. He adjusted his spectacles and leaned closer, but Mr. Trick stepped back, allowing the scroll to curl in on itself.

"The payment."

Rupert cleared his throat. "Right."

He offered the vial to the vampire, who plucked it from his grasp with astonishing delicacy, stowing it gently inside his coat. Next, the demon re-tied the ancient scroll. From his outer pocket, he pulled a pair of latex gloves and handed them to Giles, who frowned.

"The scroll is cursed," Mr. Trick explained. "Mortals who touch it with bare skin will experience excruciating pain."

Giles paled and donned the gloves hastily. "I see. Thank you."

He accepted the papyrus scroll with great caution, slipping it into a messenger bag at his side. The demon's eyes flickered yellow for a moment, and though the motorcycle helmet covered his mouth, his wicked smile was obvious.

"I hope, for your sake, that this elixir works."

"I assure you, it will," the watcher replied, swallowing.

Mr. Trick said nothing more, simply lowered his visor, zipped up his jacket, and hurried from the alleyway.

/ / /

_September 9 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

With Faith bleeding in the backseat and glass all over the Jeep, Xander was hard pressed to keep his attention solely on the road. It wasn't easy to drive a car that looked like it had just been through a drive-by shooting through the French Quarter without drawing attention. They had barely gone five miles before he had to pull over and stop the car so that Buffy could puke, but Faith, who was frighteningly lucid for a gunshot victim, refused to let him drive to a hospital. She barked orders from the back seat like a military officer, immediately resurrecting childhood memories of his eccentric and much-decorated uncle, Clarence. With Buffy's head resting on her lap, and a hand pressed against her wounded shoulder, Faith directed them into a part of town that became steadily seedier as they drove. Soon, they were passing Mexican grocery marts with barred windows, auto repair yards, liquor stores, squat apartment buildings, and disheveled houses. Xander grit his teeth to quell his nerves as they drew looks from a group of men standing outside a dingy cantina.

"I hope you know where you're going, Faith," he said stiffly.

The brunette nodded. "Pull in here."

Xander slammed on the brakes, turning the wheel abruptly, and the Jeep careened into the parking lot of a dilapidated gas station with an adjacent auto garage. Cosmetically speaking, it was a wreck. The sign above it was faded, and the paint was peeling. The pumps were outdated, the concrete filled with cracks and fissures. Like all the other real estate in the area, the windows of the cramped convenience store were fitted with metal bars, and adorned with neon beer signs. Old cigarette ads hung in the door and on the outer wall of the building.

Willow, who had said nothing during the entire trip, turned her pale face toward the back seat. "What the hell are we doing here?"

Faith was unfazed. "Xander, go inside and tell Jorge that you want your car fixed up ASAP. And tell him to put in on my tab."

"Okay?"

"He'll know what to do."

Without further question, Xander climbed from his car and strode up to the door of the convenience shop, drawing glances from the old man smoking out front. He would have looked ridiculously out of place as it was in his pressed black slacks, leather shoes, and collared shirt, but the bullet holes and broken glass weren't helping to deter any stares.

Willow frowned. "Are we just going to hang around here while they fix the car?"

"No." Faith was already opening the back door, gingerly sweeping glass bits aside. "I'm going to take Buffy somewhere safe."

"What about me?"

"I think you should stay with Xander, just in case."

"What? No way!"

Buffy moaned, and Faith held up her bloodstained hands in defense. A red stream trickled down her wrist and into her sleeve. "I'll give you my cell number. I'll even tell you where we're going."

"I'm not just going to let you drag her off to some sex dungeon!" Willow's pale face flushed beet red. "I don't even know who you are!"

The brunette quirked a brow. "Sex dungeon?"

"You know what I mean!"

"I'm not gonna hurt her." Wincing, Faith gestured to her bleeding shoulder. "I think we've already confirmed that the bad guys aren't on my side."

"We don't know if your side is the good side."

"You're really gonna pick guys shooting people from rooftops over me? I'm a white hat, okay? Harmless."

The redhead glowered. "You're both hurt. How are you going to get her anywhere like that?"

Faith snorted. "l've had worse. I'll manage."

If looks could kill, Willow would have leveled an entire regiment of marines, but the brunette had already hopped onto the pavement, and was now lifting Buffy carefully out of the vehicle.

"Listen up, Red. I'm staying at a motel about three blocks west of here. It's bright orange. Can't miss it. I'm taking Buffy to my room. It's number 250. Whenever you and Xander are finished up, come join us, but leave the car parked over here. If those guys got his license plate, they'll be looking for it." She ducked her head out, paused for a moment, and poked her head back inside. "In fact, he should probably lay low for a while."

Faith got down on one knee against the rough concrete, and gently instructed Buffy to climb onto her back. The blonde did so, with clumsy, shaking limbs, and the two started off down the sidewalk. Willow hopped out of the car and glared at their backs. The blood had soaked through the back of Faith's denim jacket, staining the rough fabric a dark, angry maroon. Buffy's skirt was far too short to hide much with her legs wrapped around the brunette's torso, and Willow could distinctly make out the edges of black underwear through her sheer tights. She glared at them both, mind turning furiously, trying to work out how a 120 lbs woman with a bullet in her shoulder could carry her approximate weight like a casual hiker would a daypack. She still had no answers when Xander emerged from the dingy convenience shop wearing a dazed look, receipt in hand.

"Where'd they go?"

Willow bit her lip. "Faith's motel room, I hope."

"You hope?"

"God, I'm such an idiot!" Willow smacked her forehead. "We can't just let some lunatic take Buffy! C'mon Xander! We're going after them!"

Xander agreed with a bewildered shrug. She grabbed his arm and they jogged off down the cracked sidewalk. Faith hadn't made it very far. She was clearly struggling to keep Buffy's weight off her injured shoulder, and she seemed almost as grateful as she did irritated when the two coworkers approached, slowing to a walk.

"Back to interrogate me some more?"

"We're coming with you."

"Fine." Faith bent her knees and lowered Buffy onto the ground. Xander lurched forward to catch the girl. "Xander has my gun anyway. Couldn't fight anyone off without it."

"You need to go the hospital," Willow said tersely, "Buffy, too."

"Not such a good idea right now with a hit squad out looking for us."

"You really think they'd storm a hospital?"

"They stormed a fucking college graduation ceremony. I'm not gonna risk it."

Willow's eyes widened and her brows shot up toward her hairline. Faith realized with a groan that she had unwittingly allowed the clever redhead to connect the dots. A black sedan with flashy chrome wheels rolled past them blasting reggaeton from open windows. It reminded her of something. The slayer glanced at her watch.

"We gotta get off the street. It'll be rush hour soon."

Willow's astonishment was immediately supplanted by irate suspicion. "Not until you tell us what the hell is going on! Why are a bunch of guys with sniper rifles trying to kill Buffy?! And why haven't we called the police?!"

"No police."

"Why not?!"

"It's not safe to talk about it out here," Faith growled. "We have to get to the motel."

"No, this is crazy!"

"Will…" Xander bumped the girl's shoulder with his elbow. He had propped Buffy up against him, but she was fading fast in the heat. The blonde looked worse by the minute. "I trust her."

"You're joking."

"No, I'm really not." Xander glanced between the two of them. "I don't have a clue what's going on, but she's right," he nodded at the brunette, "we have to get off the street."

"Fine, but I'm calling the police the _second_ anything weird happens."

Faith said nothing. Xander just shrugged. "Alright, fine. Now help me carry Buffy."

By the time they reached the crummy, orange motel, everyone was hot, sweaty, and tired. Faith and Buffy were both covered in blood. The blonde's white blouse was smeared with red across the chest, and there were bloody handprints stamped into each of her thighs. Xander deposited Buffy in the bathroom, where she puked again, and continued to retch while the brunette rifled through her duffle bag on the squeaky bed. Willow stood in the doorway, glaring around at the tiny room as though an army of criminals might burst from any corner. At length, Faith happened upon her first aid kit. She returned to the bathroom, and pried it open on the counter. Buffy had crawled into the bathtub and curled her tiny body into a ball. Xander was perched on the side of the tub, stroking her hair.

"Don't go to sleep yet," he warned softly.

No reply came from the figure in the tub. Faith stripped off her ruined jacket with great care and tossed it on the tile floor, hissing through her teeth when she went to lift the tank top over her head.

"Do you...need help?" The man asked.

"No." Faith glared at her shoulder. "Thanks," she added.

Her range of mobility was limited, and in the end, she just ripped the top off. Medical tweezers sat waiting on the peeling, vinyl counter, but her eyes strayed to the mirror, studying her reflection. She hated this part. This was always the worst part. Once the slayer adrenaline wore off, the pain kicked in like a wrecking ball to the ribs. She healed fast, but it hurt, and in her line of business, hurting was always on the itinerary. Her olive skin was laced with scars, some faint, others raised and white like braille, a physical history of the violence done to her body. It was a beautiful and ugly catalogue of the sacrifices she had made, a reminder that she wasn't sure who she did it for.

Soft whimpering from the tub tugged her mind back to the present, to the shitty motel bathroom with the cracked tiles and the flickering neon light. She sighed. The wound wasn't going to clean itself. She plucked the tweezers off the bathroom counter and clenched her teeth.

Now or never.

For several minutes, as she fished around for the fragments of the bullet, her curses and groans drowned out Buffy's distress and Xander's quiet murmuring. Fresh blood flowed from her shoulder, dripping steadily onto to the tile floor. A stream of obscenities poured from her mouth as she finally wrenched the last shard of metal free. She deposited it in the sink with the rest of the bits, in a rosy pool of water and blood. Using a rough motel towel, she dried herself off just enough to thread a hot, sterilized needle through her skin without slipping, and she wasted no time inserting the stitches, a new scar to form atop old scars. Faith threw down the toilet seat and collapsed on top of it, dropping the crimson towel onto the floor in a fit of exhaustion. She had only closed her eyes for a moment when the sound of Buffy, sobbing quietly, drew her attention. She peered down at the quivering girl in the stained tub.

"What's wrong?"

Buffy said nothing.

"I guess that's a stupid question."

"I think she has a migraine," Xander said quietly, "from the concussion."

Faith reached into the medical kit on the counter, retrieving a bottle of ibuprofen, and a plastic cup, which she filled with water. The metal fragments clinked as they swirled around the basin of the porcelain sink and into the drain.

"How fucking hard did this girl fall?"

"No clue. Will said she hit her head on some concrete stairs."

Faith handed the pills to Xander, along with the cup of water. "She's gotta be traumatized, too. I've had head injuries before, but she is _really_ out of it."

"Here, take these." He nudged the blonde. "You'll feel better."

The tiny blonde sniffed pitifully as she gathered herself into a sitting position. She accepted the pills with shaking hands, and downed them along with the entire cup of water. Faith stared down at the garish, rusty brown stains covering Buffy's white blouse. She, herself, was wearing nothing but cargo pants, a black training bra, and dried blood.

"I'm gonna get us some clean clothes. Xander, make sure she keeps those pills down."

Willow volunteered to change Buffy out of her ruined business attire as soon as Faith exited the bathroom, and stood defensively over the slayer's shoulder as she dug through her big black duffel bag. Everything she owned was too big for the petite blonde, who couldn't have been more than 5'2", and so Buffy was dressed in a black, Iron Maiden concert shirt that hung off her narrow frame like a bag, and a pair of grey, cut-off sweatpants. Her body seemed even smaller than usual as Xander carried her into the room and laid her on the bed. The atmosphere was tense, and quiet. Willow watched every movement that Faith made, and narrowed her eyes when she thought she detected something suspicious. Xander tried to keep his tone light, but as the sun began to set outside, even he couldn't prevent diplomatic relations from unraveling. Faith had already raided her tiny fridge for beer, and was on her second, perched languidly on an armchair in the corner, when Willow's patience broke.

"We've been here for over an hour," the girl snapped, turning away from Buffy, who was now dozing restlessly under the covers. "When are you going to explain what the hell is going on?"

"Now, I guess," Faith replied laconically.

She had bandaged her shoulder and rinsed the area, foregoing a shower for the present in favor of a pair of ragged black jeans and a black v-neck shirt. Her bandages were clearly visible beneath the collar of her shirt, and her dark, wavy hair hung loose and tangled around her shoulders. Her fingernails were short, and red, and she tapped them restlessly against the can in her hand.

"Don't stop on our account."

The brunette considered her words carefully, eyes flicking between the two office workers as she sipped from her beer.

"I'm not totally sure what's going on," she finally admitted. "I think this is a case of mistaken identity."

Willow waited for Faith to continue, pressing on only when it was clear that the woman wasn't planning to elaborate. "Who do they think Buffy is?"

"An...assassin."

"And that's what you are?"

"Yeah." Faith threw back the rest of her beer.

Xander's eyes were wide, and they continued to widen. He delicately removed the forgotten and disarmed chrome .45 from his waistband, setting it gingerly on the nightstand.

He swallowed hard and licked his lips. "Are you supposed to kill her, too?"

"No, I was...hired to find out who she is, and why she has a bounty on her head. I have to protect her."

"Who hired you?"

Faith's expression twitched with vague amusement. "That's classified."

The government agency card always shut people up. Americans were a strange bunch, simultaneously proud of and terrified of their government. Her comment had the desired effect. Both office workers clammed up, assuming, it seemed, that the CIA, or the NSA, or the FBI, or even the oval fucking office were involved. So long as they associated her with an official agency, they would stop questioning her involvement.

"Are those men bounty hunters?"

The brunette chewed on her lip. "No idea, but if I had to guess? They're probably the mob."

"The mob?" Xander asked. "Is that still a thing? I thought all the kids were crips and bloods now."

"Yeah, it's a thing." Faith aimed for the wastebasket across the room and tossed her can over his head. It hit the rim and bounced off. "I really hope it's not the mob."

Xander and Willow exchanged long, unreadable glances.

"What do we do next?" Willow asked tentatively.

Faith laughed hoarsely. "I take Buffy to my handler. You get your loved ones and get the fuck outta town for a while." Her expression darkened. "Especially you, Xan-man. You married? Kids?"

"Married," he said. "Anya's 5 months along."

The brunette managed half a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I thought so. Congrats."

"Uh...thanks.'

"If they got your license plate number, she's already in danger. Go get her and leave town for a while. Go to Baton Rouge or wherever the hell you guys go. Just lay low."

Willow could literally see the blood draining from his face as Faith's words sank in. She caught his eye and silently pleaded with him to stay, but it was useless.

"Will," he said faintly, "you have my cell. Call me if anything else happens."

"No, Xander, don't leave! What about Buffy?"

"She's the government's problem now." He stood from the bed without even the slightest pause. "I've gotta get Anya. I can't let her get hurt."

"Call her!"

"I'm sorry, Will."

Faith checked her watch. "Jorge should be done with your car by now, and don't worry about the payment. I got it covered."

"You should come with me, Will. Secret agents are involved. This is way over our heads."

"And leave Buffy here with a complete stranger?" The IT analyst clambered to her feet. "We don't even know if she's telling the truth!"

"I have a badge somewhere," Faith interjected, shrugging, "if that's what you need to see."

Xander's answering laugh was nervous and unconvincing. "I think the evidence is actually pretty overwhelming, Will."

They continued to argue for several minutes, going back and forth while Faith watched impassively from her armchair by the table. Her arms were folded, legs crossed, eyes dark, but she wasn't as idle as she seemed. Her mind was whirring, clicking through options at a breakneck speed. Her gaze flicked to the bedraggled blonde, who was following the exchange between her coworkers with red, foggy eyes. She needed to heal, they both did, but every moment spent in the dingy motel room was a moment wasted. Faith rubbed her forehead wearily and raised her voice above the debate on the opposite end of the room.

"Xander!" she barked. "Go get Anya and come back. I'll have an extraction crew pick you guys up and take you somewhere safe. Willow!" The redhead scowled. "Stay here with me until Xander gets back."

To everyone's surprise, Willow actually seemed satisfied with this arrangement. Nodding eagerly, Xander touched her shoulder, and pulled out his phone. Once he had programmed the brunette's number, he rushed headlong through the battered door and didn't look back. The slayer sighed and eased herself out of the chair, making a grand show out of the discomfort that her gunshot wound was causing her. She crossed the tiny room, stooping slowly, and with much wincing, to retrieve another beer from the fridge. Willow studied her suspiciously out of the corner of her eye as she stroked Buffy's hair.

"You don't look like a government agent to me."

"Good," Faith cracked the beer and chugged down half of it while Willow looked on, lip curled with disgust. "That's sort of the point, isn't it?"

"Whatever."

"Fuck! Jesus shitting fuck!" Fatih grasped her shoulder and doubled over, groaning loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. The beer dropped to the ground and amber liquid gushed out onto the threadbare carpet. A harsh knock sounded on the wall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Willow's tough facade slipped and a thin ray of genuine concern poked through her prickly exterior. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"First aid kit," Faith wheezed, "bathroom counter. Please."

The redhead hesitated, chewing on her lip, shifting from foot to foot, but she presently turned on her heel and hurried into the bathroom.

The slayer wasted no time. Leaping up out of the chair, she was across the room in 2 seconds, door yanked shut, wooden chair jammed under the doorknob. Buffy struggled upright in the bed, feebly pushing the covers aside, mouth open and trying to form words. Willow was already banging on the bathroom door with both fists, screaming obscenities and threats, but Faith was moving. She slung the black duffle bag over her good shoulder, hurried to the bed, and wrapped her good arm around Buffy's waist, lifting her up in a superhuman display of strength and agility.

"We have to go," Faith said, her tone hushed and urgent. "You're coming with me. I can't keep your friends safe."

Shocked as she was, Buffy seemed to understand, and with the brunette's arm around her waist for support, they struggled together out of the motel room and into the parking lot. The door slammed behind them, drawing more irritated knocking from the room next door as it the impact rattled the establishment's thin walls. Sobbing miserably, Willow clambered into the bathtub and pulled her phone out of her pocket. Her hands were shaking so badly that she missed the numbers twice. The third attempt was successful. She put the speaker to her ear and wiped her nose.

"_911, state your emergency_."

"H-hello. I'd like to report a kidnapping."


	9. Gone Girl

_8.8.15_

_I wrote and rewrote this chapter like, three times. Ugh! You know, if you can figure out how to power through writer's block, I believe you can do anything. Seriously! Like, finish that story you've been meaning to finish, and then go train for a marathon. Nothing's impossible once you've overcome the writer's ultimate obstacle._

_Sometimes I have to remind myself to be grateful that I have a job. Like, especially when there are people out there struggling to make ends meet, you know? But I'm just so tired and stressed out that it's very difficult to be grateful right now. _

_That and it takes away from my special writing time. _

_So not cool. _

_Enjoy chapter 8!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**8\. Gone Girl**

_September 9 - Metairie, Louisiana_

Detective Tom Wallace sipped on a cup of fresh black coffee as he poured over the unruly stack of paperwork on his desk. His day was drawing to a close, but the department was gearing up for another busy night. The office was abuzz with activity outside his cubicle. Workers bustled to and fro, answering phones, faxing documents, pacing the narrow aisles. It was noisy, and distracting, and he was too tired to get much of anything accomplished. He sighed and dropped the report in front of him. A cheese danish sat untouched on a plate to his left. He spared it a longing glance and glanced mournfully down at his waistline.

"Detective Wallace."

He swiveled in his chair to find Officer Wells, a skinny young man with plain brown hair, clear blue eyes, and a five o'clock shadow, gazing at him expectantly.

"Please, Andrew, just call me Tom."

The officer swallowed and glanced around quickly. "Tom."

"What is it?"

"Someone called in a 207. The captain wants to see you."

Detective Wallace groaned and rubbed his temples. "Tell him I'll be there in five minutes."

Officer Wells scampered off, leaving the grizzled detective to his thoughts. He straightened his arm, pushed up his sleeve, and checked the time on his wristwatch. Another groan rumbled in his chest. His eyes flicked toward the portrait of his wife, smiling brightly on their wedding day. Her dirty blonde hair was loosely curled and adorned with white flowers. He reached for his cell phone and fired off an apologetic text message. Another late night was already in the works.

He left his desk and headed down the hall.

"Captain." Wallace hailed the man gruffly, closing the door behind him.

Captain Ernesto Rodriguez was a stout, Latino man, short in stature, but powerful. His arms bulged in the sleeves of his fitted, blue shirt as he extended his hand for a terse shake with Detective Wallace.

"Thanks for coming, detective. We have an interesting situation on our hands."

Rodriguez gestured through the one-sided mirror at a pale redhead huddled up in the brown metal chair, eyes red, clothes wrinkled. Her skin seemed drawn, almost sallow beneath the single bar of fluorescent lights overhead. A heavy weight settled in the pit of the detective's stomach.

"Who is she?"

"Willow Rosenberg, 25, single. IT analyst with the law firm Allen &amp; Fox. Born in Monroe. Graduated from Louisiana Tech magna cum laude three years ago. She lives alone in Marginy."

"Is she the 207?"

"Called it in. We found her locked in a bathroom at the Big Easy Motel**.** Room was registered to an Elizabeth Jones. Paid in cash up front. It's likely a fake."

Wallace nodded and chewed on his lip. "Who's missing?"

"Her coworker, Buffy Anne Summers, age 23, single. Moved here from Los Angeles last June. She's a legal assistant with Allen &amp; Fox."

"What the hell were they doing in a dirty motel room? Drugs?"

Rodriguez frowned. "Possibly. She has a weird story. Their office is located in that building downtown, the one that caught fire this afternoon."

"I heard about that. Suspected arson."

"Right. So, get this. Ms. Rosenberg," he pointed through the glass, "told me that an unidentified young woman showed up outside the building, claimed she was a government agent, and convinced them to drive to the motel with her."

Wallace scoffed. "Then locked this girl in the bathroom and took off with her friend."

"You got it. There was a third coworker, apparently. Xander Harris. He drove them to the motel, but left to go to his pregnant wife."

"Hm."

"We sent a patrol car to pick him up and bring him down to the station."

"What about her?"

Rodriguez scratched his chin, and turned toward the detective. "Go in there and talk to her. Go over the story again. Get some more details. I want to know if this was a legitimate kidnapping. We'll look like idiots if we call the networks and find out tomorrow that this Buffy girl is a drug runner, or...you know. Part of some operation."

Wallace sighed and nodded, heading round his captain to the door on the far side of the narrow room. "Give me an hour."

"Sure, detective."

/ / /

_September 9 - Upstate, New York_

The night sky overhead was dark and moonless, the surrounding landscape cloaked in a deep, consuming shadow. Even the stars seemed dimmed, as if cowed by some rising evil. Several miles from the interstate, a narrow drive twisted through a tangled forest of evergreen trees, its switchback turns climbing steadily up a steep hillside. Near the top, the dense vegetation yielded to a tight clearing, revealing a pristine lawn, trimmed hedges and a garden with gates of twisted rod iron. In the center of the clearing, at the hill's peak, an old, stone estate rose silently out of the earth, yellow lights gleaming from its arched windows. All was quiet save the soft murmur of an engine, the supple crackling of tires rolling over paving stones as a black Land Rover emerged from the dark forest and approached the front gate. A security guard waited stoically in the booth, dressed head to toe in black, with a gun strapped to his waist. He stepped out and approached the car, speaking to the driver in hushed tones, before lifting the gate and waving them through. The fortified estate waiting at the end of the drive was a veritable castle, built with the fortune of a forgotten 19th century industry baron. The grand entrance immediately came into view, illuminated by massive, flickering gas lamps mounted on thick, stone pedestals around the car park. A four centered Tudor arch framed an enormous set of wooden doors and a shallow stoop, flanked on both sides by turrets with narrow windows and crenelated stone parapets. The four corners of the residence were fortified with defensive towers and sturdy masonry that could have withstood even modern ballistic attacks. The vehicle slowed to a stop outside the front entrance, and the driver jumped out to open the back door. A single passenger climbed out and silently stole toward the house, unaccompanied.

As the hooded figure approached the house the great doors swung open with a groan, and he stepped into a breathtaking entryway. Two crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted, limestone ceiling above a great wood-panelled room, with polished walnut floors laid in a cubical pattern, and paved tudor arches supported by fat stone columns, framing the passageways that wandered deeper into the mansion. The right side of the room boasted a variety of cabinets and framed artwork. On the left side, a sitting room had been made up with velvet couches, a bear skin rug, styled wooden side tables supporting period lamps, and rows upon rows of bookshelves displaying dusty, cracking tomes. A pristine marble statue held court in the center of the room, the famed likeness of the first Roman emperor, Octavian Augustus, captured in flawless travertine marble, hand outstretched over his subjects. Beyond him, a grand wooden staircase climbed up to a broad landing where the stairs split to the left and right, draped with vibrant, crimson carpeting and fitted with handsomely carved banisters. Three stained windows glowed from the wall above the landing, like jewels set in a crown, illuminated by an unknown light source.

Two women, scullery maids in short dresses and aprons, paused in their work and bowed deeply as the great doors shut. Their metal collars glinted in the light of the chandeliers when they straightened and returned to their tasks. Guards posted at the entrance nodded silently and offered their own stiff bows in traditionally medieval dress, leather tunics and high boots, hide breeches, and a simple iron helms, long pikes held aloft in clinking, armored hands. The visitor bypassed all of this grandeur without hesitation. He turned and passed under the most unremarkable of the stone arches, striding down a long, dimly illuminated corridor past more gas lanterns mounted in glass sconces. At the end of the hallway he followed a spiraling stone staircase down until he reached the lowest level, where the walls felt damp to the touch and the air was colder. He proceeded to the end of another wide passageway, lit this time with flickering torches, and paused in front of the great wooden doors that loomed at the end. He reached for one of the heavy brass rings, knocked twice, and waited until the doors swung open. The chamber they revealed was long and relatively spacious, an old chapel, complete with rows of original wooden pews, golden candelabras on ornate stands, wooden statues of christ and the saints, now vandalized and defiled, splashed and smeared with dried blood in places. A black marble colonnade supported the vaulted, stone ceiling, forming three aisles, including a central nave, anachronistic in comparison with the surrounding 19th century architecture, it's medieval aesthetic amplified exponentially by the flickering torches secured to every column.

In the apse at the far end of the chamber, beneath three glowing windows of magnificently intricate stained glass, an odd collection of furniture had been fashioned into a sort of seating area on the raised altar platform. Persian rugs, plush leather couches, velvet ottomans, overstuffed armchairs, and chaise lounges were strewn about like a group of old, Irish tombstones, arranged in a loose, circular cluster around the marble altar, upon which a mass of thick, multicolored candles had been piled, white, black and red all dribbling and mingling together, forming a ghoulish, warped mountain of wax. A guard beckoned the visitor inside and shut the heavy door.

"You're late," he hissed, yellow eyes glinting in the gloom, "he's been asking for you."

"I was delayed," the man replied irritably, sweeping back his hood. "You're lucky I'm here at all."

The dim light revealed a visually unremarkable human man, middle aged and forgettable. He bore his Italian heritage for all to see, six feet tall and barrel chested, with dark, swarthy features, thick eyebrows, an aquiline nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and a stubborn chin. He wore black business slacks, a white collared shirt, and tie, all now rumpled, but he had thrown a zip-up grey hoodie and leather jacket on over the whole ensemble, and looked especially weathered with his five o'clock shadow growing in.

A distressed, feminine whimper echoed through the old chapel as a head popped up over the back of one of the large couches. "Tony, is that you?!"

More heads popped up, accompanied by more frightened whimpering. With a parting glare at the guard, the visitor strode forward into the chamber, heels scuffing against the marble floor as he made his way down the aisle through the rows of empty pews.

"That is you! Say hi to Tony everyone!"

A chorus of growls sounded from the makeshift living room, vampires wearing their demonic faces and golden stares taking stock of the newcomer. Angelus jumped to his feet in their midst naked from the waist up, drops of blood dripping from his chin and onto his chest, running in tiny rivulets over his pectoral muscles and down his abdomen. His face morphed back into it's handsome, human form, but his grin was no less feral or disconcerting in the flickering candlelight.

"Thank Satan, you're here," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "I was starting to think you'd never show up, which, you know..." he chuckled, "would be a _horrible _mistake. Oh, that reminds me." He snapped his fingers. "How's your wife? Carol? Carolyn…?"

"Joanne," Tony corrected, coming to a halt at the steps.

"Right," Angelus snorted. "How's Joanne? That old ball and chain. Is she still knitting? God, that hat she made you last winter was just adorable."

"She's fine," Tony replied, eyes narrowing. "Still knitting."

Angelus rounded the couch and beckoned to him. "Come on, man! Come on up! I don't need to invite you in, do I?" The vampire cackled at his own joke. "Welcome to my place! Have a seat anywhere." He gestured to the many couches, armchairs, and more alternative seating arrangements, some of which, Tony could now see, were occupied by feeding vampires, jaws latched onto the wrists, thighs, and throats of several naked, semi-conscious young women. "Sorry for the mess," Angelus said lightly, kicking aside a dangling wrist. "You caught us in the middle of breakfast. Hope you don't mind."

Tony grimaced lightly, but made no mention of it. He moved toward an unoccupied, seemingly unbloodied armchair, and dropped down into it, sighing heavily. He checked his watch and yawned as Angelus reseated himself on a vacant ottoman.

"Long flight?" the vampire asked casually. "You know I hate airplanes, myself. All that sweet, delicious blood packed into a tight space, and I'm not allowed to sample even a teansy little bit."

"That, and the seats are crap," Tony remarked gruffly, rubbing his neck. "Christ, I'm stiff."

A wet, suckling pop carried over from one of the couches as a male vampire in a leather corset detached himself from a thigh, casually licking the blood from his lips. Tony rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"So, I'm here," he grouched, "in person, because for some reason it was absolutely _imperative_ that I come all the way out here instead of just picking up the phone. Which, by the way, what the actual fuck, Angelus? You can't just call me up in the middle of an international conference and expect me to drop what I'm doing and run over here!"

Angelus examined his nails, a tiny, sinister smirk playing on his features in the candlelight. "Oh, but we both know I can." He chuckled and dug into the pocket of his red leather pants, removing a banded wad of pound notes. "I brought this extra specially for you, just to ease the pain a little."

He chucked the cash across the space with unnecessary force and cackled with delight when it smacked the man square in the chest. Tony glared back, jaw twitching as he indelicately stuffed the wad of bills inside his jacket.

"Alright fine. I'm here. What do you want?"

"Right," he said drolly. "Business, business…"

Angelus sighed and glanced down at his bare chest, smearing the sticky blood around with his hand like a child playing with their food. He sucked a finger into his mouth and savored it for a moment. His tongue curled lasciviously around his knuckle before retreating again. The vampire moaned low in his throat, a hair-raising growl of pleasure.

"That's Mai Li," he purred, eyes rolling back into his head for a moment. "I got her in a trade with a club owner that owes me money. His only daughter. Can you believe people?" Angelus shook his head. "Not that I'm complaining. She tastes better than sin, and that's saying something." He turned to his posse of demons, most now detached and lounging about, basking in the post-feed afterglow. "Hey! Guys!" He snapped his fingers, gesturing toward a pale, comatose teenage girl, crumpled up carelessly on the carpet where the vampires had dumped her. "Go easy on her! She's my favorite. Get her some juice or something. Whatever these breathers like."

Tony huffed. "Can we focus?"

"Gosh, I _suppose_," Angelus drawled. "I swear you're all work, no play sometimes. But fine," he shrugged, "you want business? You got business." The vampire leaned forward suddenly and leered at him, yellow flickering behind his eyes. "I want information."

Tony gazed back impassively. "Okay...on what?"

"This new super powered slayer that everybody's talking about, _obviously_." The vampire scoffed in mock disbelief. "Tell me what you know." Angelus licked his lips. "I want all the juicy details."

"That's what this is about?" A flash of irritation crossed Tony's face. "There's nothing to tell. Nothing you haven't heard already."

"Oh, I very much doubt that." The vampire's malicious grin morphed into a taunting sneer. "In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're holding out on me. Do I have to remind you who pays the bills, Tone?"

"Was it really necessary to call me all the way out here for this?"

"Well, you see, there was this little phone bugging scandal with the NSA. Maybe you heard about it? And then the guys found out the FBI was sniffing around, and, well… Can you blame me for getting a little paranoid?"

Tony just glared.

Angelus waved it off. "So, spill the beans already."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say." Tony clasped his fingers in his lap. "You've already heard the prophecy. In person, if the rumors are true."

"You heard about that?" the vampire sighed. "It'll be centuries before Nobu's over that little snafu. He's _extremely_ territorial."

"Yeah, well, other than that I know nothing, except that nobody has found the girl yet."

"Not for lack of trying." Angelus examined his nails. "She keeps slipping away from my guys. Slayers are so good hiding themselves, am I right?"

"The girl in the prophecy?" Tony cocked his head to the side. "Nah, she can't be the slayer. Someone else must be hiding her."

The vampire's expression darkened, as though a shadow had passed across it. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its cavalier, lilting tone.

"What do you mean she can't be the slayer? Is the prophecy false?"

"No, no," Tony shook his head, "she can't be the slayer _yet._"

"Yet?"

"Because the current slayer is still alive."

"Still alive…" Angelus echoed, pursing his lips. "But the prophecy was delivered in the present tense. You're telling me it's a future prediction?"

"It would have to be, wouldn't it. There can't be two slayers active at once. It's impossible."

"Is the Council hiding this girl?"

"Nah, but they're looking for her." Tony's eyes wandered to the mountain of weeping candles piled on the altar. "They've even got the real slayer out looking for her. No luck yet."

Angelus smirked. "I thought you said you had nothing to tell me. This is _way_ better than nothing."

"Glad I could be of service," the man replied drily.

"What's the slayer's name? The current one?"

"Faith Lehane."

"Oh, yeah! I remember her now." The vampire snickered. "God, that was back in… yeah, she's gotta be way past her expiration date." He paused, stroking a sharp canine with his index finger. "She was all bright eyed and bushy tailed and…angry. I liked her. She was twisted. Lots of spunk."

Tony snorted. "Definitely spunky."

"She tasted amazing." Angelus grinned and shook his in disbelief. "I can't even describe to you… like, an orgasm in my mouth. Like...what's that food you guys like so much? French food? Yeah, like the finest French cuisine you ever had, and the sexy waitress is blowing you at the same time."

"Huh," Tony pulled a face, "okay."

"Don't like French food? Too bad." Angelus looked positively amused as he changed the topic. "So, what I'm really looking for is a normal human girl? You sure your old maid, Faith is still alive out there?"

"I'd know if she weren't. We track that sort of thing."

"I hope for your sake that you're right," the vampire mused ominously. "And you're sure that there is absolutely no freaky, ancient magical way that there could be two of them at once?"

"Unless the laws of magic reversed themselves overnight?" he shrugged. "I'd say so, yeah."

"Tony, my man," Angelus stood, wearing a triumphant, bloody grin, "you are definitely getting another stack tonight! This is excellent news."

"Great. Can I go now?"

"Oh, my god. What are you, a child? Can you go?" Angelus threw his head back and laughed, turning and pacing in a small circle. "Sweet baby Moloch, no! You can't go! We are so not done here, man! Not even close." He stalked over and grabbed both armrests on Tony's chair, leaning down on cold, bare arms until they were almost nose to nose, until he could smell the perspiration breaking out in tiny beads on the man's forehead. "We haven't even talked about _my _plans yet."

Tony swallowed.

"That's right." Angelus grinned wickedly at him, tongue darting out to moisten his bloodstained lips. "There are a few things I need _you_ to do for _me_."

/ / /

_September 9 - Metairie, Louisiana_

Willow's pale face was warmer now with Xander seated beside her, but they were both ill at ease in the cramped interrogation room. The slender redhead sipped delicately at some English Breakfast tea. Xander's bagel sat untouched next to a packet of reduced fat cream cheese and a plastic knife. Detective Wallace muttered under his breath while he reviewed the notes on his legal pad, tapping his pencil erratically against his temple.

"I'm going to be frank with both of you," he announced suddenly, jarring the coworkers out of their nervous stupor. "This is a really weird case."

"You're telling me," Xander scoffed. "I didn't even know Buffy Summers this morning, and now I'm sitting in a police station, which, I'll admit, is not as cool as it looks on TV."

The detective smiled. "You didn't really think we had holographic touch screen computers, did you?"

"A guy can dream."

Willow huffed and looked exasperated. Xander spared her a comforting glance and put his hand on her shoulder.

"It's gonna be okay, Will. There isn't much we can do right now."

"I know."

"Let's go over this one more time," Wallace interjected, tapping his pencil against the legal pad, "so, you're escaping from a burning building supporting Buffy, who is concussed, and you're all soaking wet…and then, suddenly, this woman, who you've never seen before, leaps twenty feet out of the air, lands in front of you, and tells you that Buffy is in danger."

They nodded wearily.

"Okay, first of all, twenty feet is ridiculous. That's practically Olympian. Are you sure you aren't exaggerating? Maybe you were in shock and you don't remember things so clearly?"

"Oh no," Willow shook her head, "it was definitely twenty feet."

"It could have been more, actually," Xander added. "We're not shitting you."

"I, uh...appreciate that." Wallace cleared his throat. "And she was armed?"

"Yeah," Xander shrugged. "She had a stolen handgun, and a backpack full of weird weapons."

"Weird how?"

"She had a bunch of stakes."

"Yeah, and knives."

"And I think I saw an axe."

The detective peered at them curiously. "Stakes? Like wooden stakes that you put in the ground?"

"Yeah," Willow frowned, "except that it looked like they were hand carved."

He sighed and made another note on his legal pad. "Okay."

The two coworkers sat in silence, Xander jostling his leg incessantly, as the balding detective finished up.

"And then, she convinced you to leave with her, and Xander," he pointed at the man with his pencil, "you took her gun, which wasn't loaded, and brought your car around, and Willow, you and…Faith…ran and stuffed Buffy in the back seat and drove off under sniper fire from the building across the street. And Faith got shot."

Willow bit her lip. Xander just looked tired. Neither of them commented. They had been over everything twice already, but Wallace looked like he was stuck on something.

"I don't get it," he admitted, leaning forward in his chair. "I feel like I'm missing something. How did she convince you guys to go with her? What did she say? Did she threaten you? I just…" He rubbed a hand over his head. "You guys don't look like idiots."

"Well, it wasn't so much what she said to _us_…" the redhead began, chewing on her thumb uncertainly.

"What do you mean?"

"She said something to Buffy, and it was something that Buffy had mentioned to me earlier in the stairwell while she was having her panic attack. I thought that it was too weird to be just a coincidence."

"What did she say?"

"She asked Buffy if she knew what a 'slayer' was."

"A slayer?"

Both parties nodded in agreement.

"What's a slayer?"

"I have no idea," Willow confessed, seeming rather angry with herself for admitting it, "Faith never explained, and I didn't ask, but Buffy said something about it to me earlier today. It's just...well, Buffy graduated from UC Sunnydale. She was at the graduation ceremony that got attacked by all those gunmen, and she told me that one of the attackers was yelling things into the microphone while they shot at people, telling the 'slayer' to come out and fight him."

Xander wasn't sure that the eyebrows on the detective's face could go any higher. "I thought that was just crazy talk."

"I know," the redhead glanced sidelong at her friend, "so, when Faith said something about it to Buffy, I just sort of assumed that she was…"

"What?"

"I don't know," the woman frowned. "That she was trying to help us, I guess. That there was something bigger going on and she knew more about than we did."

All three of them lapsed into silence as they considered this piece of information. A sudden, sharp rap on the glass behind him startled Detective Wallace so badly that he bashed his knee against the leg of the metal table.

"Arg! Goddamnit!" He scowled back at his reflection in the one-way window. "Will you guys excuse me for a second?"

He was immediately greeted by his captain on the other side of the wall.

"Good work, Detective."

"Thank you, sir."

"We've stumbled into something big here, something above our security clearance."

Wallace stiffened. "What are you saying?"

"The FBI is taking over."

As if on cue, a tall, muscular man in a dark suit entered from the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind him. Everything about him was standard issue and forgettable, and the detective sensed that he was reluctant to remove his aviators as he stepped forward to shake hands with the captain.

"Captain Rodriguez? Agent Riley Finn. My team will handle this case going forward." The man was young and handsome, late twenties or early thirties with dirty blonde hair and a bit of well-placed stubble that helped to mature his appearance. "You must be Detective Wallace." They shook hands. "Excellent work."

Wallace managed a stiff nod, but there was nothing worse than losing an interesting case to the Feds, to a pretty boy that was 10 years his junior. He looked toward the window, only to find that the two coworkers were being escorted out of the room by a pair of men in black suits.

"I have orders to move these witnesses to our building**. **If we need any further assistance from the Metairie police department we will be in touch." He gave them a winning smile. "Thanks again for all your excellent work here, gentlemen."

Turning on his heel, Agent Finn took his leave, closing the door behind him as he left.

"Condescending bastard," Wallace muttered darkly, slumping against the wall. "I missed dinner with my wife for this. How can they just sweep in and take our cases from us?"

Captain Rodriguez shook his head slowly, clearly resigned. "Like I said before, Detective. This one is bigger than us."

* * *

_A/N: I've noticed that some authors publish playlists or songs that inspired them to write. How do you guys feel about that stuff? Do you ever actually listen to them?_

_I ask because I DO build playlists for all my stories, but I've never shared them before. _


	10. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

_8.20.15_

_As a writer, I often find myself faced with a vexing conundrum: _

_Speed_

_Quality _

_Length_

_...Pick two. _

_Without further delay, I present to you the long-awaited chapter 10! _

_-Rex_

* * *

**9\. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder**

_September 9 - Southeast Texas_

Faith tapped her hands on the steering wheel in the dark cab to keep herself awake, humming along with the tinny notes of Led Zeppelin on the radio. Beside her, curled up on the bench, Buffy slumbered fitfully. Faith had tossed her an old sweatshirt to use as a pillow, and her hand was fisted in it, tucked under her head just a few inches from the slayer's thigh. Her long blonde hair had dried into messy waves and curls that spilled off the seat like in a cascade of soft gold. Her face was still pale, and her breath was sour. The girl had only stopped vomiting a few hours ago. Faith could smell it faintly even over the weak AC, and wished, not for the first time, that she could voluntarily shut off her supernaturally enhanced senses. She cracked a window and popped some gum and let her mind drift away. They passed a mile marker and the song changed to Rush. She didn't know the words as well, but she remembered the beat, and she tapped along to Neil Pert's snare drum, sipping from a can of Pepsi, trying not to think too longingly about the Holiday Inn they had passed 10 minutes ago. It was a battle she was starting to lose. Her muscles were spent and her body ached.

Faith sighed as they passed another mile marker. Buffy had practically cried herself to sleep, huddled up in the passenger seat and they made their way out of town. She hadn't even tried to jump out of the van, and Faith was kind of impressed by that. In her place she would have fled the vehicle on bare feet in the middle of traffic, screaming for someone to save her from the lunatic that had kidnapped her. That would have been the reasonable thing to do, but so far nothing about their day had been reasonable.

Everything in New Orleans, from start to finish, had been an unmitigated disaster.

She drove west and kept the speed limit.

/ / /

_Six hours earlier - New Orleans, Louisiana_

Faith had grown accustomed to working alone. In years past, before her spat with the Council, she had run missions with other potentials, lay human allies, and even covens, but there hadn't been need for a super group like that in some time. The jobs she took now were small. Her operations were lean, maybe one witch for the smoke and mirrors, and Giles running recon.

Working in a group, caring for another, it was not like riding a bike. She was rusty, and the platoon-leader instincts did not immediately return to her as she snatched her bags and led Buffy hastily out of the motel room. To make matters worse, the girl was unsteady on her feet, concussed, and untrained. She looked small and frail dressed in Faith's clothes, clinging to the slayer's arm for support as they crossed the parking lot. A group of Mexican men standing around a work truck stared at them openly as they limped by, muttering to each other in Spanish.

"Mira, güey. Drogas…"

"A la verga."

"...la rubia está crudo..."

Faith clenched her teeth. Heat flared out along her collar and up her neck as she pulled Buffy closer into her body.

"Hey!" she barked. "Callate, culeros!"

The men recoiled in shock.

"No hay problema," one said.

She glared ferociously and hastily pulled Buffy away toward the road.

In the interest of avoiding additional unwanted attention, Faith immediately steered them back into the neighborhood behind the motel, summoning an Uber ride on her phone, memorizing the street signs as they hobbled past. She did her best to take an easy pace for Buffy's sake, aware that she had miscalculated and left the bitchy redhead with a phone, aware that the police could arrive at any moment. She leveraged all her patience, all her training, to fight down the paranoia creeping in around the edges of her thoughts. Patience was not, and never had been, a virtue she possessed, although, it ceased to matter altogether, when Buffy swayed on her feet and crumpled onto somebody's front lawn. By the time the Uber driver arrived five minutes later, Faith's nerves were completely frayed.

Things only got worse. The driver was obviously less than impressed with Buffy's condition, limp and boneless, eyelids fluttering, generally incoherent as Faith loaded her into the back seat..

"Is she gonna be okay?"

His lip curled in just such a way that the brunette almost lost it, almost lunged over the seat and clocked him, left his body on the side of the road, and taken the car. Almost. Faith composed herself and managed a terse, "yes". She glared at him in the rearview mirror instead, and kept it up for the entirety of the 30 minute trip back downtown through rush hour traffic, watching with vicious satisfaction as he squirmed, as beads of sweat spread across his forehead and dripped down his temples. She put Buffy's head on her lap in the backseat and saw to it that the rest of the ride passed in silence.

Buffy did not vomit in the car, much to everyone's relief. She vomited later in the parking garage, however. Twice, as Faith rearranged the luggage on her bike to fit in a single bag. Buffy's lack of balance or coordination was becoming a serious obstacle to the slayer's escape plan. Faith had almost completely prespired through her fresh shirt, which was now clinging to her back as she searched through her phone for Giles' number. Buffy still had not said a word, huddled up against the concrete wall with her eyes closed, a trembling hand pressed over her mouth.

The call picked up immediately.

"_Faith! Is that you?_"

"Still not a vampire," she said brusquely, eyeing the blonde with concern. "I need your help."

"_Where the hell have you been? Why weren't you answering your phone?_"

"Calm down, G! I've got the girl! I need your help."

"_The girl? The slayer?!"_

"Yes, her. I've got her."

"_Is she-?_"

"No."

_"Oh, dear…"_

"G, I seriously need your help right now, okay? Can we talk about this later?"

There was a bit of indiscernible grumbling and cursing on the other end, but the watcher was all business by the time he spoke again. "What do you need?"

What they needed was a getaway vehicle, and, even from his apartment all the way in New York City, Giles, the logistics wizard, was capable of arranging that. He rented Faith a Uhaul van, with room enough to pack the bike away, and enough anonymity to slip past the police. It was perfect. The tricky part, however, would be transporting Buffy, both of them really, to the rental place in one piece.

"_They're only six miles away, but they close in half an hour. Can you make it?_"

It wasn't like they'd had much choice. With at least half a dozen serious doubts clouding her mind, Faith used a pair of bungee cords to secure her pack to the back of the bike.

She turned to the shivering little blonde and sighed. "I'm really sorry to do this to ya, B. This is going to be seriously unpleasant."

Lifting Buffy up off the ground, she stuffed the helmet onto her head, clothed her in the black riding jacket, and helped her onto the passenger seat. She was small enough that they both fit snugly, even with the bag.

"'Kay, so, you gonna be alright back there?"

Almost as she said it, Buffy nodded forward too far, helmet colliding painfully with the back of Faith's head. The blonde slumped against her.

"Take that as a 'no', then. Plan B."

Faith carefully propped up with one arm as she dismounted and rounded the seat to dig through her bag for supplies. As she reseated herself, she caught Buffy's arms and looped them around her middle. Next, she wrapped duct tape around both of the leather sleeves to keep them secured.

"Tug," she ordered.

Buffy tugged anemically with no effect. Faith grinned and gave her a thumbs up over her shoulder. It looked ridiculous, but it would work. It wasn't the craziest thing she had done by a long shot. Giles had always commended her on finding a path through the chaos. Faith just called it 'being resourceful.'

"I think I'm gonna puke again," Buffy warned breathily.

Faith's smile vanished. Panicking, she reached backwards and whipped the helmet off just in time as Buffy leaned over and heaved, throwing them both off balance in the process. Faith steadied them, watching over her shoulder until Buffy sat upright again. Her chin glistened and smelled of rancid vinegar. There was a strong possibility that she had gotten some in her long, blonde hair. She looked mournfully at Faith, who grimaced.

"Wipe it on my shirt," she said.

The blonde obliged, wearing the expression of a guilty dog. "Sorry," she croaked.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Grip the bike with your thighs and hang on tight. This next part is gonna suck."

She shoved the helmet back in place, and rolled them ever so carefully down to the entrance of the parking garage. She paused at the gate to pay the attendant, a middle-aged, no-nonsense black woman who gawked at the duct tape around Buffy's arms and stared at them like they were crazy.

"She's still learning," Faith offered with forced nonchalance. In truth, her heart was pounding as the woman gave them and incredulous once over. "Her uh, balance isn't too good."

"Mhm." She frowned and wrinkled her nose as she accepted Faith's sweaty five dollar bill. "Looks like your driving isn't too good."

"Uh, yeah. Maybe."

The woman shook her head. "Have a nice day, and try not to kill nobody."

She lifted the yellow gate, and Faith eased them out onto the boulevard.

With time running short, Faith used her superior strength to keep them both upright as she sped along, weaving through traffic like a European circuit racer. Buffy trembled and gasped behind her, but she was quiet. At the rental place, Buffy sat on the ground next to the bike in a daze while Faith breezed through the checkout, hoping, praying that her face hadn't made it to the nightly news yet. Once she had the keys in her hand, it was easy enough loading her bike into the van with slayer strength, but something seemed to click in Buffy's foggy mind when Faith led her to the passenger door.

"Where are we going?" Her eyes darted around the lot, paranoia creeping in at last.

"It's okay." Faith tightened her hold. "Everything's okay."

"Where are you taking me?"

"It's okay," she repeated, soothing as best she could. "We're just going to a hotel."

"What about my stuff?" Buffy pleaded. "What about my clothes?"

"We can't go back to get them. It's not safe."

"I have to...I have to call my Mom. I have to let her know I'm okay."

"You can't call anyone. No one can know where we are. Listen!" Faith took Buffy's face in her hands and stared hard into her glassy, hazel eyes. "You can't tell anyone where we are, okay? It's not safe. Not yet."

The blonde swallowed. "Who were those men?"

"I'm not sure," Faith said honestly.

"Why are they chasing us?"

"I'm not sure about that either. All I know is that it's my job to keep you safe, and right now, until we know more, that means keeping our whereabouts a secret. Okay?"

"What's going to happen to me?" she asked quietly, solemnly, realizing at last that something life-altering was about to happen.

Faith just shook her head.

And then Buffy started to cry.

/ / /

_September 10 - New York City, New York_

"Faith? Is that you?"

"_Hey, G_."

Rupert sat bolt upright on the couch, groping about wildly for the lamp on the side table. "Where are you?"

"_About 12 miles from Beaumont_."

"Pardon?" Soft, yellow light filled with the room with a click. The watcher placed his spectacles on his nose and blinked. "Beaumont?"

"_Yeah. Near Houston._"

"Ah, okay."

"_I think I'm going to stop there for the night._ _I'm worried about Buffy_."

"The slayer? Or, well, the not-slayer?"

"_Yeah_. _She's concussed and not doing so hot. I think she's in shock._"

The aging man exhaled heavily, eyes falling on a framed replica of a medieval tapestry hanging above his record player. His body felt heavy, and his mind was sluggish.

"_G_?"

"Does she have a watcher?"

"_I don't think so, but we haven't exactly talked much._" There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the distinct flick of a disposable lighter in the background. "_She has a concussion_, _and she's in some kind of shock_. _I ran into some static today at the building she works at. There were these guys shooting at us from the roof. You know who they were_?"

"I can guess, unfortunately." He sighed. "Angel's henchmen."

He could hear his slayer exhale through the phone. "_I fucking hate that guy_."

"Yes. I share in your sentiment."

"_So,_ _what am I supposed to do with little miss super-slayer, here?_"

"Well, if Angel and his henchmen can find Buffy's apartment they'll be able to use her things to track you."

"_Yeah...fuck._"

"Did you give her your charm?"

"_No! Shit, I forgot. Hold on_." He waited while Faith unfastened her silver crucifix and placed it around the other girl's neck. "_Okay...how long will that hold?_"

"A little while." Giles reached for an address book on the coffee table and opened it up. "We need to get her under some stronger protection spells. Like the ones you're under."

"_Duh_."

He flipped the page. "You're stopping in Houston tonight?"

"_That's the plan_."

"And you can get to Dallas in the morning?"

"_Yeah. It's only a three or four hour drive._"

"Excellent. The Council has some contacts there. I'm booking you a room in Houston tonight, and Dallas tomorrow."

"_Thanks. I'm pretty sure I burned through my last fake identity, and I'm too tired to think of something else._" Faith groaned. "_And I've got vomit on my shirt. Almost forgot about that._"

He reached for his laptop and pulled up a travel website. "Give me one second…" Faith waited silently on the other end. His thumbs tapped against the keyboard. "Looks like...check in tomorrow at noon is the best I can do."

"_Okay, that's fine. Whatever_."

"Do you like the Red Roof Inn?"

"_Sure_."

"I'm grabbing a Holiday Inn suite for tonight."

"_Super._"

"I'll text the directions to your phone. Please keep it with you at all times in case plans suddenly change."

"_Sir, yes sir._"

"For tomorrow, I'm booking a flight out of JFK first thing in the morning. Please keep Ms. Summers safe until I arrive."

"_I'll try not to lose her._"

"I would appreciate that."

"_G, once we get her to Dallas, then what?_"

"I suppose we turn her over to the Council for safe-keeping. I really have no idea." He punched his credit card number in from memory. "I haven't spoken to Travers about it yet. I'm sure they'll want to butt in and muck up the whole business with squads of watchers and the like."

"_Indubitably_," Faith drawled, and he could almost hear her roll her eyes. "_Um, Giles, was there a...well, was the prophecy specific about Buffy?"_

The Englishman frowned at his phone. Faith's tone had taken on a slight tremor. She sounded nervous.

"What do you mean?"

"_I mean_, _this_ _Buffy chick is already in her twenties_."

Giles wrinkled his nose. "Hm? How odd."

"_It didn't seem weird to you that a teenager was working in an office building_?"

"You're quite right. It should have occurred to me." He bent down and shuffled through some books in a pile on the floor. "How old did you say she was?"

"_I dunno. 22 maybe? She doesn't have her ID on her._"

He pulled a leather-bound journal from the pile and set in on his lap. It fell open automatically to the most recently used page, a freehand drawing of a spiny, African demon that induced madness and profound violence in its hosts. He turned over to a page filled with fresh text, inscribed in neat little stanzas on the paper. His fingers drummed against it.

"Has she had the dreams?"

"_I don't know. Again, we haven't said much to each other_."

"Well, where is she now?"

"_Asleep_." Faith heaved an exasperated sighed. "_G_…"

"Yes?"

"_The prophecy. Was it specific about her? Does the all powerful slayer have to be Buffy? Because I don't see how that's gonna happen. She's already way too old, and if she's gonna be some super-slayer that saves everybody, well...that means she can't do that until I die. Which means…I hafta die." _

The watcher closed his eyes and allowed himself a deep steadying breath before he answered. "Yes, the prophecy is very specific. It's about Buffy."

"_Is there a time frame? Does it have to pass within a certain amount of time_?"

"I don't think so, no."

"_I'm trying to figure out how serious this is, G_. _Throw me a bone, here_."

"Well, it could be quite serious." He sighed. "In fact, this may not be the first time that a prophecy like this one has come to pass."

A rustling sound carried over the line, followed closely by the click of a lighter and a distinct exhalation. She was bracing herself.

"_So...a recurring prophecy?_"

"Perhaps, yes," he replied, laconically.

"_That sounds serious._"

He glanced down at the text on the page. "It could be. I'll know more as I complete this translation, certainly."

"_Translation of what_?"

"Well, that's a bit a story." He straightened his glasses. "As soon as I heard the details of this prophecy I sent some inquiries out to my contacts around the world at the various libraries and collections of ancient, mystical texts. I asked them if there was any record of a slayer prophecy specifically naming a girl. Just today I acquired a cursed Greek scroll in a trade with one of the demon informants that the Council keeps around. It is a fragment of a larger text, but I've already worked through the first bit. It tells an interesting story, mainly, it profiles the destruction of a city at the hands of a very powerful slayer, whose...birth, as the text calls it, was foretold by the Oracle at Delphi."

"_Really?_" Faith sounded a little hesitant. "_What does it say?_"

"I haven't gotten past the prerequisite 'praising of the gods' section of the text, so all I can tell you at this point is that the name of the city was Thelos."

"_Typically unhelpful_."

He hummed in agreement and closed the journal. "I'll keep digging. I've never known the Oracle at Delphi to have been involved in the slayer lineage, but it wouldn't surprise me."

"_A person learns not to be surprised after a while._" Faith exhaled heavily down the line. "_It's weird babysitting the girl that's gonna replace me. It's creepy...it's like waiting for your own death._"

"Every potential is your potential 'replacement'. How is this any different?"

"_Don't be stupid. You know it's different_. _I've never been in a situation like...where it seems like it would be better for me to die than to keep fighting_."

"Faith…"

"_I don't know how to deal with this._"

The watcher removed his spectacles and rubbed his forehead. He didn't know how to deal with it either. No one had expected Faith Lehane to last this long anyway. Most slayers didn't. They had given her a three year life expectancy and turned her out to him with a half-hearted good-luck wish and a monthly stipend check. From the very start she had been a stray, a mutt, rough around the edges and always out of place. It bled through in her demeanor at the best of times. He hadn't been able to take her anywhere without offending somebody, and eventually they had agreed to meet in 24-hour diners, bars, and burger joints. Boston had its rough neighborhoods, of course, but her world had expanded overnight, and she had then been asked to use her patchy, 9th grade education to solve the kinds of all-encompassing, posterity-threatening issues that even a superhero might have shied away from. They hadn't expected her to defy the odds, to survive for 10 long years in a job with the highest turnover rate in history. Even when Giles threw his whole weight behind her, trusted her with every ounce of his being, and saw the potential that she possessed, many of the others had remained doubtful.

"Are we sure she can survive the next one?" they had muttered.

He had begun to believe that they would have actually preferred her dead, if for no other reason than to confirm their bias. In time, she had refused to cooperate with them, to lend legitimacy to their overbearing tenure or follow their rules. Faith placed no stock in the primacy-of-the-Council argument from which they had borrowed so much authority over the centuries.

"It's just an old, white guy convention," she always said, and, in a single statement, rendered them no more significant than a Republican fund-raiser ahead of the next primary.

Rupert agreed with her more and more as time went on, and it wasn't because he had begun to carry the same stock of suspicion that accompanied Faith into all her battles. He resembled his colleagues in mind and manner less each year. He listened to them speak, uttering words and phrases that he himself had once uttered, and scoffed. Never mind that these men were his senior advisors, or that they sat on the board. He was out in the field with a slayer. He had faced hideous evil on more occasions than he could count while these men sat in libraries and poured over books. They had warned him for years that she was getting older. That she might die at any moment. That he should prepare himself emotionally for the inevitable. He wanted to throttled the lot of them. It was not that easy, nor should it have been. In an organization that prided itself on its professional detachment, he had always struggled to maintain emotional distance.

He was not prepared to outlive his slayer.

He did not know how to deal with it."

"Maybe…" he paused and debated with himself internally for a moment, "maybe we should reach out to the Council for help with this."

"_I don't trust them, G_."

"I know." Neither did he. "Would you rather keep quiet about this for a bit?"

She hesitated, sucking in a sharp, nervous breath that echoed over the line. "_I mean...I really wanna hand this girl over to 'em and be done with it, but they'll just bust in and fuck things up, like you said. We both know it_."

"I agree."

"_I mean, fuck...I don't want her to get hurt, you know?_"

He smiled. "You _have_ always had an air of reluctant nobility about you."

She snorted. "_Yeah, whatever_."

"Okay, then. Mum's the word until we know more."

"_Cool._"

"My flight gets in tomorrow at 11am central time. Do you need anything else before I go?"

"I dunno. _Probably not. I'll let you know_."

"Alright, I'll be in touch."

"_Okay, G. See ya_."

"Drive safe."

She hung up the phone, and the watcher sat motionless on his couch, heart pierced with an overwhelming sadness. So many times he had imagined his slayer's untimely death, and never had it seemed more palpable than it did now.

/ / /

* * *

_A/N: Most of y__a'll were oddly silent after the last chapter. How are things going? Still liking the story so far? _


	11. Disorientation

_9.26.15_

_Hello everyone! I'm back with an extra long chapter this time. Please don't be mad that I took a month to update. _

_Pretty please? _

_Enjoy chapter 10!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**10\. Disorientation**

_September 10 - Pasadena, CA_

Bright, morning sunlight streamed in through the kitchen windows, thrown open to welcome the light autumn breeze and the peaceful neighborhood sounds. Dawn stood at the stove over a crackling pan of eggs, headphones on, nodding along with something that sounded suspiciously like Kanye West. She always whined about Buffy's taste in music, how she wasn't sophisticated enough for her age, how she should branch out more and appreciate art. What art and Kanye West had to do with each other, however, was a still mystery to Buffy, much to Dawn's extravagantly dramatic dismay. Buffy watched her sister out of the corner of her eye, sipping coffee from her Disney Princesses mug as she turned the page in her fashion magazine. A half-empty bowl of cheerios sat forgotten and forlorn to her right. She set her coffee aside, turned back to her magazine, and poured over a fresh spread of maxi dresses and sandals.

Presently, the sound of footsteps on the stairs piqued her interest, pulling her out of a silent debate between two purses she couldn't afford. Her eyes rose to the center of their provenҫal, farmhouse-style kitchen table, where a oriental celadon vase gleamed in the morning light. In it rested a bouquet of pristine white lilies, arranged perfectly by her mother, who, since acquiring an art gallery downtown, had developed a keen sense for interior decorating. No matter how Buffy felt about Dawn's taste in music, her sister had clearly taken after their mother. Buffy wished that she had inherited a few more of her mother's genes. During school she had immersed herself in hobbies like cheerleading, and fashion, nothing, in hindsight, that was particularly useful or exciting. She had been little more than a vain social climber, much like her successful, philandering father, with whose money Joyce had opened the gallery and sent Dawn to extracurricular painting classes.

Buffy chewed her lip. Her fingers lingered absently over an image of a red Prada bag.

"Good morning, girls!" Joyce swept into the kitchen wearing a long, silk robe. It was embroidered with elegant orchids, and seemed to shimmer as she walked.

"Good morning," Buffy said.

She turned to look at her oblivious little sister. Dawn hummed under her breath as she took the pan off the heat. She shook the eggs out onto a plate, returned the pan to the burner, and added bacon. The smoky scent of hot grease filled the room. Mrs. Summers puttered around the kitchen, fixing a cup of coffee as she hummed to herself.

A tiny, bemused smile played on Buffy's lips. "_You're_ in a good mood this morning."

"Well!" Joyce tucked a lock of blonde behind her ear. "I had a good night, and the art gallery is doing well, and I have two beautiful daughters of whom I am _very_ proud."

"Aw, Mom."

Dawn shut off the stove with a distinct click and carried her plate to the table, pulling out a chair with a screech before plopping down into her seat. Joyce exchanged an exasperated glance with her eldest daughter before gliding off toward the refrigerator. She returned with two peach yogurts, one of which she offered to Buffy before settling down in a vacant chair.

"Darling," she said melodically, "I cannot tell you how much I love you. I don't say it enough."

"I know, I know." Buffy rolled her eyes. "I love you too."

"I mean it, honey. If anything ever happens, I just want you to know that I love you no matter what."

"Okay." Buffy blushed. "Love you too."

She looked down at her yogurt and fumbled with the top for a moment. The foil was stubbornly clinging to the sides and she couldn't seem to get her finger under it. She turned the container around and tried again from the other side. Again, no luck. Frustrated, she reached for her spoon, planning to puncture the top, but as she lifted her gaze she saw that her mother and her sister were gone. The kitchen was empty, and unnaturally quiet. Even the air seemed still. Buffy slipped out of her chair and stood, pacing around the table, fingers gathering dust as they slid across the wood. She felt dazed all of a sudden. She turned in every direction, but found no clues. They had disappeared completely.

"_I did not mean to interrupt_."

Buffy whipped around, and her hand flew to her mouth. The light in the kitchen was suddenly much darker, much redder, as though the sun outside had begun to set. A lean, ashen figure towered over the kitchen table. His limbs were long, as were his hands and fingers, and were it not for his charred, papery skin, he may have even been elegant. Skeletal wings, folded behind his back, twitched and fluttered quietly as he settled his weight, and though the details of his face were difficult to make out, a familiar pair of luminous blue eyes peered back at her.

"_Did I frighten you_?" he asked.

His voice seemed to fill her chest, musical and effervescent, otherworldly. Buffy's hand slid from her mouth and landed on her chest, covering her racing heart.

"You startled me."

"_I apologize. It was not my intent_."

She tilted her head curiously. "Haven't we met?"

"_Once before._" His eyes flickered. "_You weren't well._"

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, I thought I dreamed you."

"_It will all seem a dream again when you wake. You must try to remember_."

She stepped closer, tentatively. "Is it true that you're my guardian?"

"_Yes_."

"What's your name?"

"_It is better that you call me φύλακας_."

"Phylax?"

"_Please. I would prefer it_."

"Okay, Phylax…" A shadow of doubt crossed her face. "Am I in danger? Is that why you're here? Are you going to warn me?"

"_Not this time,_ _μικρό __ήρωας_. _I am here with words of comfort._" He moved closer, until his haunted face was illuminated in the red light. "_I hope that they will help._"

He leaned down and laid his hand upon her head. Immediately, a cool, soothing calm rushed through her, like water cascading over her skin. She sighed with relief. Her muscles uncoiled. Her mind cleared.

He spoke again to her in a sweet, melodic voice. "_The woman you met today saved you from an evil fate. She will protect you. You can trust her._"

"Faith?"

"_Yes. She is the one called φονιάς._"

Buffy breathed in deeply. "What is she protecting me from?"

"_She will explain_ _everything_. _Listen to what she says_."

He moved his hand and gently brushed the hair from her eyes.

"_Buffy..." _

Her lashes fluttered. Her breath caught in her throat. She leaned into the hand forehead and a soft smile graced her lips. It was like she was a little girl again, when she would stay home from school sick, and her mom would wipe her forehead with a cool washcloth while she sang songs from the radio.

"Buffy…"

She tried to open her mouth and speak, but her words were uttered as a weak moan. Fingers slipped through her hair, caressing her scalp. It drew a contented sigh from her lips.

"Sing 'Ironic'," she muttered. "S'my favorite."

"I don't know the words. Sorry."

Buffy frowned and squinted, but the light was too bright, and she wasn't quite awake. Her head and her mouth were full of cotton. She couldn't make out her surroundings. Something was wrong. The voice was unfamiliar. The mattress was too hard to be hers. She blinked until a blurry face swam into a view.

Her shoulders tensed.

"Hey, there blondie. You remember me?"

It was a woman, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes and lightly browned skin. She had full lips and dimples and her face was bare. The purple remnants of a faded bruise stained her cheek, but she was no less beautiful for it.

Buffy _did_ remember. She remembered an assassin, a lithe brunette shouting directions to someone in a car, blood spilling from a bullet wound in her shoulder. She remembered, the flash of Willow's red hair and angry, white teeth, a black motorcycle and a heavy helmet and duct tape. She remembered the feel of a hard body tensing and shifting in her arms as she struggled to hang on.

"F- ...Faith?"

"Hey."

Buffy rolled her head to the side and let her eyes roam about. "Where...are we?" She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. "Ouch."

Suddenly, as though her senses were finally catching up with her, Buffy realized that she felt awful. Every muscle seemed to ache, and her skin felt dry and tight, like it had been pulled taught and left in the sun to dry. The starched hotel sheets chaffed her bare skin like sandpaper. Buffy moaned and tried to swallow, cringing at the old, acrid taste of bile on tongue. Her stomach felt empty, but something unctuous and heavy had coiled in her gut and even still she was vaguely nauseous.

Faith reached for something out of sight and Buffy heard the distinct rattle of a pill bottle. A small tablet was pressed into her palm. Her fingers closed around it.

"Here, you need to take that." Perched on the edge of the bed, Faith leaned over and snatched a water bottle off the nightstand. "You have a concussion, and you'll have a migraine for a bit. Don't worry, it's the good stuff. Do you need water?"

Buffy pushed herself up on her elbows and looked around.

They were in a hotel room. It was fairly cramped, but it wasn't a motel. The reek of stale smoke was absent, the bed didn't squeak when Buffy readjusted herself. Even the decor was only 10 years out of date. She glanced at the woman beside her, dressed in a plain, oversized t-shirt, white, and tattered, like something stolen from an old boyfriend. Beneath it, her curvy frame seemed small, her shoulders too sharp, too bony. Buffy studied the toned legs that stretched out of a loose pair of black shorts, how the scars were dimmer and less pronounced in the soft lamplight, how there were fewer on her legs than on her wrists and her arms.

Faith waved the bottle in front of her face. "Water?"

"Oh." Buffy blinked slowly. "Okay."

Faith uncapped it easily and handed it to her. Buffy took her pill and drank half the bottle in three gulps.

"You're probably dehydrated," Faith said, gazing off at the images flickering on the tv. "Still nauseous?"

"Um," Buffy rubbed her temples slowly. "I don't think so."

"That's good."

The footage playing on the screen caught her attention. She rubbed her eyes and squinted.

"Is that...my office?"

"Yeah. You made the national news." The brunette rolled her shoulders, rubbing absently at the bandages under her shirt. "Apparently some people heard a little gunfire." She glanced back at her wearing a mischievous smirk, but her expression fell when she caught sight of the frightened look on Buffy's face. "You okay?"

She gazed, wide-eyed, at the aerial footage of downtown New Orleans, fire trucks and blinking lights clustered around the entrance of McAllister Plaza, a crowd of confused office workers milling around, being ushered by police officers away from the smoke. And then the shots came. She couldn't hear them, but the reaction of the crowd was too dramatic to miss, a mass of people suddenly ducking and crouching, officers and firefighters springing into action. The reporter's grim face returned to the bottom of the screen as blurry footage of a suspect sprinting across an adjacent rooftop played on repeat.

"What's going on?" Buffy swallowed, fingers curling nervously into the bedspread. "Where are we?"

"Uh," Faith rubbed the back of her neck wearily, "I was sort of hoping we could have that conversation later."

"Can you tell me where we are?"

"Houston."

"Houston, Texas?"

Faith gave her a look. "Is there another Houston?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "I don't know. Maybe." She cocked her head to the side. "How did you get me here?"

"We drove in a Uhaul van, but you slept the whole way. Why? You don't remember?"

"I remember the motorcycle ride." She frowned. "I won't ever forget that."

"That makes two of us."

Buffy pushed the covers aside and sat up, catching sight of the baggy grey shirt and cut off sweats she was wearing. They had to be the brunette's, the same mysterious brunette who had taken a sniper bullet to the shoulder just hours earlier, and who now seemed remarkably unaffected by it.

"I must be crazy," Buffy mumbled, closing her eyes. "I don't even know who you are."

"Faith Lehane."

She glanced up to find a hand extended her way. She accepted warily and gave it a light shake. Faith smiled, her first true smile of the day, a dimpled quirk of pink lips and a blinding flash of teeth. Buffy stared for a beat, forgetting herself.

"Nice to finally meet you, Buffy" she teased. "I've heard _so_ much about you."

It took Buffy several seconds to remember that she was supposed to be suspicious. "Wait, you're an assassin, right?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"So, is that even your real name?"

"Real as my tits." Faith grinned, and then paused. "But I mean, you'd have no way of knowing either way, so…"

"Ugh," Buffy groaned and hugged herself, "this is freaking me out!"

"Is it the Boston accent?" Faith wrinkled her nose playfully. "I've been trying to lose it for years."

"_No_," Buffy said, a bit breathlessly. "It's the men with guns everywhere trying to _kill_ me."

"Oh, yeah, that."

"And the fact that you already know who I am... Why the hell do you know who I am?" She paused, and scrunched her face up in confusion. "Why would you even _want _to know who I am?"

"Aw, don't get down on yourself like that." Faith sighed dramatically. "You're actually pretty cute when you're not throwing up."

She fixed the brunette with a weak glare. "I seriously need some answers or I think I'm gonna start hyperventilating."

"Yeah, well, the answers are gonna make you hyperventilate even more."

Buffy clutched at her baggy sleeves. "Oh my god," she moaned, "so not helping."

"Well…"

Faith chewed her lip and stared through the wall, through to some other place far away. Her eyes seemed suddenly very empty, distant. The vibrant energy that had animated her features moments earlier was gone, and all that Buffy could see now were the mysterious scars, perfect skin marred and torn, shredded by unknown acts of violence. A lump knotted high in her throat. The urge to touch rose up in her like a leviathan from the black, oceanic depths, momentarily overtaking her with a swift and alarming power. Her hand crept along the bedspread, inching inexorably closer to the brunette's pink, blemished elbow. The steady pulse of blood thumped in her ears, in her chest, in her fingertips, deafening, disorienting. What was this feeling? Fear? Of course. Of course she was afraid. Seeking comfort was a natural reaction in this situation. Buffy licked her lips and hesitated as she neared striking distance. Close enough to reach out and...feel.

Feel what?

"So…" Faith said quietly, startling Buffy out of her stupor. "Normally this is Giles' territory. He loves giving the slayer speech and all that. I just suck at it. You sure you don't just wanna wait til he gets here tomorrow?"

Buffy jerked her hand away. "Um…" she swallowed thickly. "Please, just tell me."

Faith sighed. "You're not gonna like it."

"Well, it seems like this is gonna be the new normal," Buffy replied waspishly, "so I might as well get used to it."

Faith looked at her, let her eyes wander up and down Buffy's figure freely, apparently performing some kind of internal assessment. Buffy blushed and turned away, heart thumping again erratically against her ribcage. She couldn't quite catch her breath tonight. Something always seemed to take it away right as she was recovering. She jerked as Faith's fingers suddenly brushed across her chin. Her finger snagged against something crusty and she reached out with her other hand, holding Buffy's head still as she scraped it away with her thumbnail.

"You need a shower first."

Buffy reached instinctively for her face, eyeing the brunette dubiously.

"Don't worry, you just had a little schmutz around your mouth." Faith smiled. "I got it."

"And by schmutz you mean…"

"Yep, vomit."

"Augh, gross!" Buffy shuddered. "Gross, gross, gross."

"Yeah," Faith snickered, "and I'm pretty sure you got some in your hair, too."

"Seriously?" Buffy's expression went from disgusted to horrified. "Oh my god. this is worse than rush."

"You were in a sorority?" The brunette snorted. "What am I saying. Of _course_ you were in a sorority."

"Only for a year," Buffy replied icily, drawing away. "It wasn't my thing."

Faith gave her a dubious look, ready to comment on the list of predictable hobbies that probably were her 'thing', but decided against it. She stood from the bed and offered the blonde a hand.

"Shower now. Talk later."

"I can get up fine by myself," Buffy growled.

Faith stifled a laugh when the blonde tripped and bashed her knee on the dresser.

/ / /

_September 10 - Houston, TX_

"So, there are actually a bunch of different kinds of vampires. It's not like it is in movies." Faith's low, raspy tone was instructional, matter-of-fact. "I've only dealt with three species myself, but there are more that live in other dimensions, and it's my job to make sure that they don't come to ours."

Buffy sat cross-legged on the bed, huddled up in a borrowed Boston College pullover that dwarfed her body, wet hair knotted on top of her head. Faith had given it to her in the truck, and she refused to be parted with it. Her hazel eyes were wide and glazed, teeth sunk firmly into her bottom lip. She was as white as a sheet, and seemed not to notice the sticky heat that had bothered Faith so much since her arrival in Texas. The girl shivered and tapped her fingers restlessly.

"This is bullshit," she muttered.

"Bullshit?" Faith rolled her eyes. "Yes. Also true."

Buffy gave her a nervous, exasperated look. "Right, and tin foil hats protect you from mind readers, and jet fuel doesn't melt steel beams."

"Fuck you, my cousin died in the World Trade Center."

Buffy twitched and turned away. "This is some kind of stupid conspiracy crap. I'm not buying into your crazy theories. Vampires aren't real. They can't be real. It's like, biologically impossible."

Faith groaned and rubbed her temples. She was far too sore and exhausted to do the this-can't-be-happening runaround with a girl who was, ostensibly, a civilian. It would have been so much easier to just take her out on patrol, but neither them were any condition to go on a field trip to the nearest cemetery.

"It's not a theory, okay? It's real. I fight these guys on nightly basis, and I have the scars to prove it." She waved her arm in Buffy's face, making sure to point out some of the nastier, and more irregular wounds. "All those things that go bump in the night? They're really out there, and right now a good percentage of them want you dead."

Buffy eyed her suspiciously. "Because of the prophecy..."

"You got it, blondie. A+."

"Are you _sure_ you work for the government?"

Faith sighed. "Seriously? I already told you I told I don't."

"But you told Willow-"

"I lied to Willow, okay?" Faith threw up her hands in mock surrender. "You caught me. I was trying to get you outta there before the bad guys showed up, and she was making things really difficult."

"Who do you actually work for?"

"No-" Faith bit her tongue and turned away. "I work for the Council, technically."

"Is that some kind of one-world government?" Buffy asked drily. "Are wars are just an illusion? Is the economy engineered? Oh, do they control the weather, too?"

"Will you shut the fuck up for a second?" Faith growled. "I could break your neck with one hand, you know!"

"So, what's stopping you," Buffy sneered. "Do it already."

Faith glared at her incredulously, not at all surprised to realize that she was a little tempted.

"Jesus," she snapped, "I've met _demons_ less obnoxious than you!"

"Demons don't exist."

"Buffy-"

"No." The blonde shook her head, chin quivering, and changed the subject. "What's the Council?"

Faith stared at her hard, answering through clenched teeth. "A bunch of old guys in London that get off on telling me what to do." she shifted her wounded shoulder and scratched her stitches. "Kinda like school."

"And...I'm supposed to become some kind of super assassin-"

"-Slayer."

"-Whatever- who kills a vampire king and...what?"

"Tips the balance."

Buffy scrunched up her nose. "What balance?"

Faith sighed and turned her head toward the window, gazing across the street at a glowing Taco Bell sign. It was late, after midnight, but there was a possibility that she still had time to go get food. Her stomach was so empty it ached. If the Taco Bell was closed then the McDonald's was probably open, and there had to be a Walmart nearby. Every suburb was the same. She was pretty sure she could strike out blind and still find what she was looking for. Faith had seen so many forgettable towns in her life.

"You done being a smartass," she asked, arching a brow. "Gonna let me finish explaining before you call me a nutjob this time?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed.

"You're lucky, you know. Getting a speech." Faith glared at her and dug a fist into her aching belly. "I didn't get shit. I just suddenly had powers one day. Like, outta fucking nowhere. I went from my stepdad beating me up every time the Red Sox lost -and believe me, they were terrible, they lost all the fucking time- to just one day I hit him back and put him in the hospital with three broken ribs. I could lift cars, and I could hear everything. I could see in the dark. A whole week passed before my watcher found me. I spent a whole week freaking out, wondering if I was Peter fucking Parker or something, like, turning into Spider Man."

"Okay, okay," Buffy put up her hand. "I get it. I'll listen."

"Yeah? You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Faith took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay… So, there's a lotta things they tell you when you become the slayer. I was always told, for instance, that the nature of humanity is cyclical." Faith twirled her finger to illustrate. "Everything is lived out in cycles. including good and evil. The scale might tip in favor of one or the other for a while, but the balance is always restored, because the two powers sort of...cancel each other out."

Buffy crossed her arms, fingers digging into baggy, maroon sleeves. "Okay… That sounds totally depressing, though."

Faith shrugged. "I agree."

"You agree? So, then what's the point of wasting your life killing 'vampires'," Buffy used air quotes, "if you never get ahead? If you're never gonna win?"

"Because, blondie, the balance isn't passive. The balance only remains in place when both sides are actively struggling to gain the upper hand, and that's where I come in."

"But there's only one of you, and there's, what, thousands of them?"

"Yup."

Buffy squinted. "How is that even fair?"

Faith sighed. "I dunno. Slayers were created at the discretion of the powers-that-be. They decided that having more than one of us would tip the scale, I guess."

"The powers-that-be?"

"Yeah, like, the gods, or whatever."

"Gods? Gods _plural_?"

The slayer smirked. "Yeah. Turns out JC isn't the only boss up there."

"Holy shit..."

"You can say that again."

"Oh my God, I can't do this. This is retarded." Buffy pressed her fingers against her temples, breathing fast. "You're just fucking with me. This is like, some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, cult stuff."

The brunette laughed. "Christ, I wish, B. I really wish you were right." She got up and stood in front of Buffy, who was was rocking back and forth on the bed, looking like she might be sick. "I can prove it."

"How?"

Faith lifted up her shirt to reveal a lacy black bra, and the puckered red skin around her gunshot wound. Buffy's eyes widened imperceptibly. She peered closer, searching for some trick of the light.

"Behold." Faith said. "Super healing."

Buffy clenched her teeth until the muscles in her jaw were literally twitching. She looked spooked, not for the first time that night.

"Is that all?" she asked faintly. "It's probably just a trick, right?"

Faith smirked. "Well, we could go find a vampire right now... though I doubt there are many out here in the burbs. Vampires are drawn to high density areas, you know. Better hunting. Easier to hide." Faith paused to think. "I could show off my super strength."

In the blink of an eye, she grabbed the leather chair behind her and lifted it over her head with one arm. She held it aloft, motionless, and perfectly balanced on the tip of her index finger, waiting for Buffy to speak. The blonde just shook her head.

"It's not that heavy."

"How about you come over here and try, blondie?"

"You p-probably just lift weights."

"Like hell I do. How many girls do you know that can do this?"

"You're a trained assassin!"

"Oh, so now I'm a trained assassin? Not just some foil-hat nutjob?"

"Shut up!"

"You're in denial. I get it. But this is all real, whether you like it or not."

Buffy started screaming. "I SAID SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Faith dropped the chair. "B-"

"I DON'T WANT TO BELIEVE THIS! I DON'T!" Tears streamed down her face. Her chest heaved. "I DON'T, I DON'T, I DON'T!"

"Okay!" Faith had to shout to be heard over Buffy's hysterical cries. "Okay fine! It's all a lie. I'm just messing with you. Just be quiet, okay?"

Buffy jumped off the bed. "NO! YOU'RE LYING!"

The slayer rolled her eyes and took a step toward the blonde. "I don't fucking believe this."

"STOP!" Buffy brandished an accusatory finger. "STAY BACK!"

"Sh sh shhhh." Faith reached out and pulled her into a strong hug, tucking the girl's face into the crook of her neck. "Let's not talk about it anymore tonight, 'kay? Let's just go to sleep."

"If vampires are real," Buffy cried, "how come I never knew about them? Why don't people know they exist? It just-" she sniffed, " it just doesn't make any sense."

"A lot of people know about them, actually," Faith ran her fingertips up Buffy's spine, and circled the taught muscles in her shoulder blades, "but they work really hard to make sure civilians don't."

"Why?"

"It's complicated."

"Does the government know?"

"I think some agencies do. Maybe some high level officials at the CIA or the NSA."

"That doesn't seem fair," she murmured, nuzzling further into the slayer's shirt. "I think people should know."

Faith nodded but said nothing more about it. She whispered into Buffy's hair, urging her to let it rest and go to bed. Her own body was throbbing and sore, and if she wasn't going to eat, then she needed to sleep. She had ridden straight through the night just to reach New Orleans, all before taking a sniper round to the shoulder, rescuing Buffy, and fleeing back to Houston in a Uhaul van. She pulled Buffy tighter against her chest as the fatigue set in, a leaden weight in her muscles and her bones. Her eyelids began to droop, temple leaning against Buffy's damp hair, absorbing the shock and shudders from the frail blonde with a body that was rapidly shutting down. Faith knew when to admit defeat.

The hotel room held two beds, but she climbed in behind Buffy, who murmured something about stockholm syndrome. Faith didn't mind if it meant she could keep herself between Buffy and the phone (which she had already disconnected), but it because it wasn't actually so bad to have a companion every now and then. There was nothing threatening about the little blonde. Faith curled up around her like she used to do when she was a kid, staying at her cousin's, when the only demons were her parents, their dealers, and the liquor store.

"I think I'm supposed to trust you," Buffy whispered, and Faith felt the words buzzing in the blonde's diaphragm, pressed against her arm.

"Yeah?" Faith brushed away some tangled locks of golden hair. "Why's that?"

"I don't know." She sniffled quietly. "Everything you say sounds completely psychotic, but..."

"But?"

"I just have this feeling."

Faith smiled. She noticed the distinct scent of sweet citrus that lingered around Buffy's scalp, and unconsciously swiped her tongue across her lips.

"Trust your instincts, B."

"I am," Buffy sighed. "You feel good."

Faith stiffened, and her stomach fluttered. The little blonde was still out of it. Faith knew it. She was traumatized and possibly still in shock. Faith knew that, too, but it hurt, like a knife, stabbing, cutting, slicing through the stitches on her heart. She counted the months in her head like sheep, stacked them, tallied them. Some time had passed, enough time, enough time to forget and move on, but she hadn't done either. That was the cruelest part of it, that the deaths weren't getting easier as she got older, that she wasn't getting more detached, that her exterior grew colder every year, but inside she was just as warm, just as soft. It wasn't fair, being shredded like that. It wasn't fair that Buffy's gentle touch, a stranger's touch, could burn like that. Her body ached and she shuddered, tried to shake away the crawling sensation under her skin. The boy in Idaho, the cute one in the motorcycle bar, why hadn't he hurt like this? Faith took a deep breath. She couldn't really remember feeling him at all. She closed her eyes.

Memories surfaced, like monsters from the deep, visions of brown eyes and dark skin, strong, warm hands that swallowed hers and grounded her when everything else was up in the air. She clenched her teeth and willed away the sudden rush of tears. She wouldn't think about him. She wouldn't. She had already replayed everything in her head a thousand times. She wouldn't think about him. The minutes passed in silence, Buffy's breathing evened out, and Faith's anguish eventually burned itself out, leaving an empty, blackened place behind it. Her chest felt hollow, and she wondered how the vampires felt in their borrowed bodies, if it felt even a little similar.

She peeled her arm away from Buffy's body and raked her fingers through her hair. A cigarette would have been nice, and a beer. Her usual coping mechanisms. She craved the comfort of earthly vices, but moving would wake the girl curled up against her, the girl who had literally cried herself to sleep. The slayer wanted to slay, was itching to do some harm to the undead. The human wanted to find a bar and get boozy with some local country boys, forget about the soul-crushing responsibilities that bound her to a life of vagrancy and death. Her fingers twitched and tapped restlessly on the mattress. She chewed on her lip until it was raw, but when she had finally decided to get up and rummage through her pack for a drink, Buffy whimpered, and wound her fingers tighter into Faith's shirt.

She resolved to stay and wait it out.

/ / /

They left the hotel early and drove north to Dallas. It was a hot September day in Texas, the barometer already pushing 80 degrees at eight in the morning. The AC unit in the van was suspect, incapable, apparently, of keeping the cabin any cooler than a sticky lukewarm. It was too hot even for Buffy, who removed Faith's Boston College sweatshirt 20 minutes into their trip and laid it across her lap, hands curled tightly into the maroon fabric as she gazed out the window at the passing suburbs. She was finally hungry enough to eat, but Faith was too nervous to stop anywhere lest they be recognized, so she let Buffy rummage through her pack for a bag of trail mix while she fiddled with the radio. She settled on a classic rock station and zoned out. Neither of them spoke much. Buffy's eyes seemed to avoid her, never quite landing on her face. Faith muttered quiet complaints about the heat every so often, peeling her shirt after from her damp collarbone, and each time Buffy turned her head just slightly, watching from the corner of her eye. Otherwise the time passed in relative silence. Buffy picked the M&amp;Ms out of the trail mix, and Faith ate the raisins. Within a couple hours they had left the bright, steamy forests of Southeast Texas behind them and passed into sprawling farm land.

They reached Dallas just before noon. It was one of the few major cities in North America that Faith had never visited, and she had Buffy read the directions to their hotel from her phone. Dallas, unlike Houston, had a single, collected skyline that could be seen from up to 20 miles away, and she watched it approach, bobbing in and out of view as they passed from fields of golden prairie grass into a dense forest of scrubby trees and bushes. The land rolled gently like a scrunched sheet of fabric, the van dipping and rising like the bow of a boat breaking low waves. Faith kept Buffy close to her when they arrived at the hotel and warned her not to speak or make eye contact with the receptionist.

"Put these on" she instructed, pulling a Red Sox cap and a pair of large sunglasses from her pack, "and wear your hair down. Try to hide your face as much as possible. There are cameras in the hotel."

Buffy accepted the items dolefully. "So, the police are looking for me?"

Everyone is looking for you, demons included." Faith examined her face in the mirror on the back of the sun visor. "If I were you, I would want to make sure that the assholes trying to kill me don't know where I am."

The blonde stiffened and turned away, face pale. She bunched her fists in the sweatshirt on her lap. She looked much younger in the morning light, face bare and free of makeup, stripped out of her business clothes. She could have been a scared teenager, and Faith wouldn't have known the difference.

"Don't worry," Faith pulled her wild, dark hair back into a messy bun, "if you follow my directions you'll be fine. No one'll ever know you were here."

"Why _don't_ we get the police involved?" Buffy asked quietly, fingering the silver crucifix around her neck. "Can't they help us?"

"Nope." Faith popped the 'p'. "Definitely not."

"Because they'll arrest you for kidnapping?"

"Because they can't protect you," she corrected, flipping up the visor. "Come on, grab my bag. Let's go."

Once inside they reached the room without a hitch. Buffy hovered just over Faith's shoulder while she checked in, and followed her glumly into the elevator. Faith picked up the phone and ordered room service as soon as they walked in the door, and then flopped back on the bed with a groan. There were dark circles under her eyes, and bruises peeking out beneath her black tank top. Buffy sat gingerly beside her on the mattress, staring vacantly at her hands. She was still in shock.

"Wanna watch tv?" Faith asked.

Buffy just nodded faintly, and she switched on the Food Network.

They were eating french fries in silence when Giles arrived at the hotel 45 minutes later. He was wildly overdressed, holding a suitcase and a rolling carry-on. His face was red, his brow damp with sweat. He had neglected to bring sunglasses, of course, and had vastly overestimated the effect that a change in seasons would have on the sweltering weather in Texas. Faith let him into the room where it was quiet, save the droning of the tv mounted on the wall. Buffy sat huddled on the bed next to a plate of food, and she didn't look up when he came in.

"So, this is her," Rupert breathed, shrugging off his tweed jacket.

Faith glanced back over her shoulder at the motionless figure on the bed. "Yeah."

"She's quite petite. Not exactly what I was expecting."

"Are they ever?"

The watcher offered her a grim smile.

"It's really good to see you again," Faith said seriously.

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" He reached out and gripped her shoulder. "I missed you. I was worried about you."

"I'm fine," she grumbled."

He smiled. "I can see that."

Faith huffed, and her eyes slid toward the bathroom door. "Now that you're here, I'm going to go take a shower, because I haven't had one in two days and I'm disgusting. Will you stay with her?"

"Of course."

Faith grabbed a razor and some fresh clothes out of her bag, and sailed into the bathroom, but she paused with her hand on the door handle. Giles recognized the mark of uncertainty on her.

"She didn't get much sleep, G. She tossed and turned all night." The slayer paused. "She said she's been having nightmares."

"She's having the dreams?"

"I don't know. She won't tell me anything."

Faith disappeared inside, shutting the door softly behind her, and the started the water. Rupert turned his attention to the figure huddled on the bed who had yet to acknowledge his presence. She looked to be in shock, which surprised him a little, but then, the girls were usually easier when they were younger.

"Buffy Summers?" He inclined his head just slightly, a calm and stately signal of respect. "It is nice to finally meet you. I am Rupert Giles, Faith's watcher."

Slowly, with some trepidation, Buffy lifted her head, mirroring his gaze with hollow eyes.

"I work for the slayer's Council in London. Has she- well, has she mentioned anything about that to you?"

"Are you gonna try and convince me that vampires are real, too?" The girl's voice was thin and hoarse. "She already tried that. I don't want to be part of your cult."

He gave her a wan smile. "My dear, there are many sinister cults in this world, most of them devoted to things more terrifying than vampires, but I can assure you that Faith and I belong to none of them." Approaching the bed, he held out a hand and smiled. "May I sit?"

She wanted to refuse him, but the prim Englishman seemed, in that moment, much more like her beloved grandfather than he did a deranged kidnapper. A curt nod was all the permission he needed to settle down next to her. He folded his hands in his lap and adjusted his spectacles. She studied the lines in his face out of the corner of her eye, noting, with some relief, that his features were kind, his gaze both soft and solemn.

"I don't see any reason to lie to you, Ms. Summers. You're in a spot of trouble."

"Just call me Buffy," she croaked.

"Alright, Buffy. Has Faith told you about the prophecy?"

"Yeah."

Giles nodded, pausing a moment with pursed lips before continuing. "There's no need for us to be too concerned just yet. Prophecies are more common than you would think. It's not the stuff of science fiction, though at times I wish it were. Men, demons, angels-"

"_Angels_?" Buffy ripped her gaze from the television.

"That's the colloquial term for them, yes."

"Oh my God..."

"None of us, no matter our race, were meant to handle knowledge of the future, hypothetical or otherwise. It drives people mad. I've witnessed it many times, and so the first thing I want to assure you of, Buffy," he laid a gentle hand on her arm, "is that you are in no way bound to this prophecy. It may or may not come to pass, and, as always, there are many variables outside of our control that will determine the outcome."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't want you to panic."

Buffy sniffed and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. "It is way, way too late for that."

He smiled grimly. "It will be alright, Ms. Summers."

She covered her eyes. "I'm not sure it will."

* * *

_A/N: So, I know there's some untranslated Greek in here. I'm not trying to annoy you, it's intended to be that way. The idea behind it is that the language is so foreign to her that Buffy can't understand what he's saying. Have you ever tried learning a language that's really different than your native tongue? Sometimes, at first, you can't even distinctly hear the sounds because your brain hasn't learned to pick them out. I've had this struggle while learning Korean. _

_Thanks for your patience!_


	12. Real Magic

_10.10.15_

_Whoa! Another long chapter? What the heck is going on here, fam?_

_Enjoy!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**11\. Real Magic**

_September 11 - New Orleans, LA_

Professional cleaners were amazing. Truly, magical.

Oz was tinkering with a finance report on his computer, rocking out to some classic punk rock on his new headphones. The office had been reopened, and although the lobby was still cordoned off, and repair workers were still hauling damaged materials out of the building, things really were back to normal. It hadn't even been a large fire, apparently. It was the mysterious gun shots that had everyone spooked. No injuries, no deaths. Still, a lot of folks had stayed out of the office. It was awfully quiet on his floor that day. He peered at the bar graph on his screen. His Y axis was off. He flipped back to his data tab and adjusted the limits.

After lunch, the IT girl came around looking for Buffy's computer. He watched her subtly as she unplugged the wires and cords under Buffy's desk. She was cute. He remembered her from the 'great printer debacle' the previous Christmas, when she had embarrassed the head of IT by fixing the problem in 10 minutes after he had spent the whole morning scratching his head. They had all pitched in to buy her cookies from the French bakery down the street.

She caught his eye as she emerged from under the desk.

"Um...hey. Hi. It's uh...it's Oz, right?"

"It is! Thanks for remembering."

Willow blushed and tucked a strand of red hair over her ear.

He stroked his chin in an exaggerated manner. "You're Wilhelmina, right?"

Her expression fell. "Um, actually it's-"

"Just kidding!" He grinned, and his eyes twinkled. "I know it's Willow."

If possible, the wiry redhead blushed harder. "Oh, g-good."

"So, what's up?" He leaned back casually in his rolling chair and watched her clamber to her feet, a fistful of cords clutched in one hand. "What're you doing with Buffy's stuff?"

"I'm taking it."

"What's she gonna use when she gets back? New machine?"

Willow paled and glanced at him nervously. "You didn't hear?"

Oz sat up a little straighter. "Hear what?"

Willow pursed her lips and placed the wires on the IT cart, hurrying back around to retrieve the monitors next. The tips of her ears were red, but her cheeks were pale and her eyes held a bit of a frantic look. She nearly dropped the monitor trying to grab it off the desk, and when Oz jumped up to help her, he saw that her hands were shaking.

"What's wrong?" He asked, taking the device and placing it on the cart out of the way. "Did Buffy get fired?"

Willow shook her head and lunged for the second monitor.

"What happened? Hey-" Oz intercepted her, again relieving her of the monitor and placing it on the cart. "What's wrong?"

The redhead took a small, shuddering breath and brushed the hair out of her face. "She won't be at work for a while. Maybe never."

She turned away and moved for the tower, but Oz slide between her and desk, effectively cutting off her route. "Wait, what happened? Is she okay?"

Tears clouded Willow's eyes, but she quickly bit them back and shook her head. "N-no." She glanced over her shoulder. "No, she's not. Can you keep a secret?"

"Best secret keeper ever." Oz crossed his heart. "Promise."

A fragile smile warmed Willow's face, and it looked for all the world like pale rays of sunshine breaking through dark clouds. Oz swallowed, only to find that his throat was suddenly quite dry. She leaned a little closer, and he felt skin on his chest prickle with anticipation.

"She was kidnapped."

His eyes widened. "Huh?" He furrowed his brow. "Wait, are you joking?"

The tears returned to Willow's eyes. "No," she whispered.

Oz stared, dumbstruck. "Are you serious?"

"Completely."

"When?"

"Two days ago."

She turned her head suddenly, and he caught the scent of her cinnamon colored hair as it fanned out around her neck, but his heart plummeted. His palms broke out into a nervous sweat. Kidnapped? Buffy? Oz looked helplessly at the few personal effects decorating her spartan desk. Why hadn't anyone said anything about it? Was it a privacy issue? The muscles in Willow's jaw clenched and trembled under the strain. She looked like she was really going to cry, so he reached out and rubbed her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I don't watch the news."

Willow only nodded, but she didn't look at him.

"What's gonna happen to her stuff?" he asked, squeezing gently. "Are you gonna take it?"

She shook her head. "It's staying here in case she comes back."

Oz was puzzled. "What about her computer? Why you taking that?"

Willow's eyes snapped to his, and he was surprised to find that they were now quite focused, quite clear. The trembling girl was gone. She leaned in closer, until he could smell her perfume.

"Can you keep another secret?" she whispered.

"I thought I already told you," he said smoothly. "I'm a world champion secret keeper."

She gave him a cautious, calculating look, and he caught a glimpse of the same, breathtaking intellect that had once fixed a department-wide printer outage in 10 minutes. He suddenly had the feeling that there was far more to Willow-the-IT-girl than met the eye.

"You have to promise not to tell anyone," she said seriously, "not even the FBI."

Oz's eyes widened involuntarily. "Okay."

"I'm going to hack her machine and see what I can find out." She watched his reaction carefully. "I'm going to say that I thought I was supposed to take it back to the IT department, like if she was fired, but you can't tell them. Okay?"

"...Okay." He nodded slowly.

What the hell was he agreeing to?

"This won't get me thrown in prison, will it?"

She smiled, leaned in, and kissed his cheek softly. "No." She pressed the tip of her finger against his chest, over his heart. "Promise."

Oz remained standing in a daze for 10 whole minutes after she left.

/ / /

_September 11 - New Orleans, LA_

Agent Riley Finn strolled down a well-lit linoleum corridor, whistling an off-key rendition of Bruce Springsteen's 'Born in the USA'. The federal government's budget had purchased the New Orleans FBI branch a nondescript building with white walls and fluorescent lights in a quiet part of town, and he loved it. He loved every boring FBI office that he visited. He loved watching new recruits and struggle to hide the obvious disappointment on their faces. The real world wasn't as flashy as the shows on television. They didn't have touch screen computers and dark rooms with futuristic mood lighting where beautiful agents in Italian suits discussed their secret plots. Theirs was a world of standard issue black chairs and cheap desks, industrial carpeting, linoleum floors, and finicky air conditioning units. It was, in a word, perfect. Bland and forgettable. It reminded him that he was a servant to the American people, that at no point in time had he ever deserved to soak up their hard earned tax dollars with fancy decorations that added nothing to the efficiency or competency of their department. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was a Spartan, bare-bones operation. They didn't need an interior designer in the budget.

At least, he liked to think so.

Agent Finn rounded a corner and entered a modest conference room on his left. A small group of special agents yawned and sipped their coffee around a box of fresh kolaches. They greeted him anemically as he shut the door behind him and circled the table, distributing folders of information like a professor on the first day of class.

When everything had been passed out, he dropped into a swivel chair at the head of the long meeting table and drew a ballpoint pen from his breast pocket. The other agents had already begun flipping through the information, circling and underlining, jotting notes in the margins. They were an eager bunch and he liked that. He allowed them a few minutes to finish scanning the documents before he got started.

"You all look terrible," he said, with feigned severity.

A mixed chorus of chuckles and grumbled agreements answered him.

Cavanaugh smirked at him from the end of the table. "Nice to see you again, Finn. You sure you're not a robot?"

Riley flashed him a cheesy smile. "I'm afraid that's classified."

The agents chuckled again.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." Riley paused for dramatic effect, spreading his arms wide, "I've brought you an exciting case this morning."

A man with bullish features, who he knew to be the curmudgeonly Agent Drake, snorted into his coffee. "Well, it's not like you called us here for knitting circle."

"Even better, Drake. This is going to be one hell of a case. You've never handled something this high profile before." He climbed to his feet with a manila folder in hand and approached the whiteboard at the far end of the room. "The subject in question is one Buffy Anne Summers, 23 years old, born and raised in Southern California, recent graduate of the University of California at Sunnydale."

As he stuck the woman's most recent yearbook picture to the center of the board, eyebrows around the table shot up. The agents murmured.

"Ms. Summers relocated to New Orleans last month and took a job as a legal assistant at Allen &amp; Fox LLC in 2121 McAllister Plaza. Two days ago there was a fire at that very same plaza, and, during the chaos of the evacuation, people in the parking lot reported hearing gun fire. You'll find all the details -police reports, witness testimonies, doctor's notes- in your packets."

He tacked a few more pictures to the board, still frames of the security footage shot at the office building on the day of the fire. The first was grisly, the burned corpse of a security guard, curled up in the fetal position under a metal desk. The next few showed a small, huddled group of people emerging from the service entrance at the rear of the building, and then fleeing in a green jeep. Another depicted a man in tan fatigues, rifle barrel clutched in hand, running across the roof of an adjacent hotel building. Still, the most interesting cluster of pictures, the ones drawing the most scrutiny from the agents in the room, depicted a very strange sequence of events. In the first panel, a naked man stood on the roof of the building, captured in the midst of what appeared to be an act of self-immolation. His legs were blackened and wreathed in orange flames that burned with uncanny brightness under the afternoon sun. In the next fame he was completely engulfed, leaping from the ledge like an experienced stuntman. The final shot was taken from a police camera, a patch of seared grass in the garden below. There was no body, and no body-shaped burns.

The agents in the room were fascinated.

"What the hell?"

"Crazy jackass lit himself on fire."

"Look at his skin. Is that normal?"

"Here's the deal, people," Riley stepped away from the board, "Buffy Summers was reported missing two days ago. This is the last public sighting of her." He circled Buffy's hunched figure in one of the photos with a red marker. "The kidnapping was called in by her coworker, Willow Rosenberg," Riley taped up a photo of the redhead in question, "Buffy and two of her coworkers were taken from McAllister Plaza during the fire scare by a woman claiming to be a government agent. Two hours later, Ms. Rosenberg called the Jefferson Parish Police Department from a motel bathroom claiming that she had been locked inside, and that her coworker, Buffy Summers, had been taken by this woman." He surveyed the room grimly. "We don't yet know who our kidnapper is, but we know that she called herself Faith."

A contemplative silence fell over the group as they reviewed the information in front of them.

"And here's where it gets weird." He retrieved a binder off the conference table and flipped it open. "Ms. Summers is a recent graduate of UC Sunnydale." Eyebrows shot up around the room. "She was on campus during the shooting last June. Hospital records from Sunnydale Regional indicate that she suffered a sprained ankle and light head trauma. The attending physician noted that she went into shock and a received a psych consult from hospital staff." He paused briefly and made a note on the board with a red marker. "She saw a psychologist briefly in Los Angeles over the summer, but there's no record of her seeking any mental health treatment in Louisiana."

"Question." A petite Korean woman with a firm jaw and sharp shoulders leaned over the table. "Do we know why Ms. Summers moved to New Orleans?"

"We do not, Agent Park" Riley pursed his lips, "but I don't think it's relevant to our case."

Now," he turned to face the board and tapped the shy, smiling picture of Willow Rosenberg, "the reason we're involved can be found on page seven of Ms. Rosenberg's testimony."

The sound of rustling paper filled the room as everyone scrambled to catch up. After a minute of frenzied reading, a hand shot into the air.

"Julie?"

"What is a slayer?"

Riley offered her a broad smile. "That's an excellent question, Agent Lopez. Very good. Everyone take note!" He clapped his hands. "What I am about to tell you is classified information. I have received permission from Washington to upgrade your security clearance."

Drake chuckled. "Way better than knitting."

"Not so fast," Riley chuckled, shooting the man a dark grin. "I haven't even gotten to the scary part yet."

The agents seated around the tables exchanged curious glances. Riley rested both hands on the table and leaned forward, sharp gaze darting between the faces of his colleagues. Six sets of eyes mirrored his, curious, nervous, excited. They were eager now, but the game was changing around them and they didn't even know the rules yet. It was time to set the board.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and began to recite a speech from memory. "In every generation there is a Chosen One." His tone was grave as he peered around the room. "She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer."

He stood back, folded his arms, and waited for a moment to let that sink in. Every face in the room was a mask of confusion, some with a hint of doubt and irritation. Nobody spoke, although he had done a pretty stellar job at baiting them. The agents just waited for him to go on.

"And she's real."

_That_ got a reaction.

Riley held up a hand to quiet the room. "Don't worry, people. I will tell you everything the United States government knows about this _slayer_, but before I do that I have to tell you about all the things that go bump in the night." His voice dipped to an ominous growl. "The monsters under the bed are real, and I'm not talking about sparkly, male-models masquerading as vampires on TV." He smirked. "They say that life imitates art. Well, in this case? The real thing is far, far more terrifying."

A heavy silence fell over the room. He could have heard a pin drop. The agents were waiting for him to say it was a joke. He could see it in their eyes. They were waiting for the punchline, the caveat, the context.

He didn't give it.

"Is this…" Agent Cavanaugh tilted his head to the side, "some kind of joke?"

Riley's lips twitched. "If it is, I'm still not laughing." He checked his watch. "I have something to show you all, a few things actually, but you'll need these first."

He hoisted a black duffle bag onto the conference table, unzipped it, and removed a handful of handsomely carved wooden stakes. The agents gaped at him as he passed them around. Grabbing one for himself, Riley headed for the door and waved at them jovially.

"Follow me everyone and uh," he paused, smiling at some private joke, "make sure you don't drop your new weapons."

/ / /

_September 11 - Fort Worth, TX_

"This the girl?"

Buffy blinked up at the woman hovering over her in the doorway, a vision of velvety, chocolate skin and long, blonde-streaked black hair woven into spiraling Havana twists. She was tall, toned, and leggy, _very_ leggy, wearing tight, ripped jeans and a pair of perilously tall high heels. Buffy glanced sidelong at Faith, whose eyes were also fixed on the blue velvet stilettos. The woman arched a perfectly sculpted brow at them both.

"Ya'll gonna stare at my shoes all day, or come inside and explain all'a this freaky prophecy business?"

Giles cleared his throat and ushered them in. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Valkyrie. I'm not sure what we would've done without you."

"Made another giant mess, I'm sure." She gave him a severe look, and then smiled, red lips tugging up at the corner to reveal a flash of brilliant white teeth.

The house was dark and fragrant, smelling of pungent herbs and spices. Buffy inhaled deeply, picking out the scents of lavender, cardamom, pepper, and charred wood. It went straight to her head. Her balance still hadn't quite returned. She let her fingers trail along the wall to steady herself, drawing a subtle glance from Faith. Her dark eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Buffy kept expression neutral. The slayer had been watching her closely all day, sometimes openly, sometimes in fleeting glances. Her body language was defensive and tense, but she stayed near at all times, never more than an arm's length away. Buffy wasn't sure what to make of it, whether it was standard protocol, or genuine concern. She was so angry that she didn't really want it, and yet, too scared to completely push it away. Somehow, Faith had tacitly understood her ambivalence, and had remained at a safe, yet comforting distance, largely silent now that Giles was there to do all the talking. Buffy bunched her hands in the hem of her borrowed shirt.

The woman, Valkyrie, shut the door behind her and casually went about locking up seven, custom-made deadbolts. Some were delicate and slick, others heavy and almost medieval looking. Giles and Faith seemed to think nothing of it, so Buffy glanced around her. They had gathered in a small foyer, next to a mirror and a basket of shoes. A narrow staircase climbed up out of sight in the gloom, and the loud, rhythmic thump of bass could be heard from the second floor. Valkyrie, waved them through a hanging curtain of glass beads into an open, country style kitchen. Buffy blinked as they emerged from the dark. Waning sunlight streamed in through the window above the sinking, illuminating a cloud of steam billowing from a pot on the stove. The floor was tiled with slabs of polished grey slate. The appliances were stainless steel, and the cabinetry was painted a crisp, stark white. Buffy was surprised. It looked like the cover of Martha Stewart Living.

Valkyrie's heels clicked as she sauntered over to the large, antique wooden table in the center of the room and began clearing things away, bits of dried leaves and flowers, piles of ash and crushed charcoal, books, shredded paper, chalk, empty vials and jars crusted around the rims with the colorful remnants of various liquids. There were also, Buffy was startled to realize, several odd looking hand guns, a chunky rifle, several and magazines of ammunition. Her mouth fell open.

"That would be Taija," Valkyrie said, following Buffy's line of sight, "my sister. She's always leaving her crap around, but you don't gotta worry, honey. It ain't loaded." She carefully piled the weapons in a cubby on the bookshelves behind her. "Now," she turned to Giles with a swish of her hips, and smiled, "to what do I owe the pleasure, Rupert?"

His Adam's bobbed. He glanced sidelong at Faith, who returned an unreadable expression, unreadable to Buffy anyway. Giles seemed to make something of it.

"I need your magical expertise," he explained humbly. "I'm afraid I'm out of my depth."

"Uh huh, I figured as much, but what do you need?"

Her keen eyes alighted again on the blonde, who shrank back unconsciously against the wall. The energy around the strange woman had changed, had shifted, and all the hair on Buffy's body stood on end, until her skin felt like it had been pricked with a thousand tiny needles. She couldn't bring herself to look away. The rest of the kitchen faded around Valkyrie's face, until the only thing she was aware of were two, luminescent caramel orbs boring into her.

"Who is this?" Valkyrie asked, breaking the spell.

Buffy shook her head as though emerging from a trance and Faith steadied her shoulder with a strong hand. Only after she had shrugged it off did she realize that she had been falling forward.

"Her name is Buffy Summers," he said. "She's a civilian who has become the subject of a rather specific prophecy. She is in need of our protection until it can be determined what will happen to her." The Englishman turned to her wearing a polite smile. "Buffy, this is Valkyrie Jones. She is a talented witch and a trusted friend of the Council."

Buffy's eyes widened, flicking between the two of them in disbelief. Witches? Really? Her mind raced. Vampires were popular. They were in lots of books and tv shows, but she didn't know anything about witches. She thought back to her childhood, watching Hocus Pocus with her mother, watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch with Dawn after school. What was the same? My eyes darted toward the boiling pot on the stove. Maybe some of it, like cauldrons and potions. What about spells? It was all ridiculous, considering that less than 24 hours ago she had been half-concussed, screaming at Faith that vampires didn't exist, but her resistance was starting to wane. If these guys were really part of a goofy cult, then it was the most serious, least goofy cult she had ever heard of.

"Relax," Faith's raspy, honey-coated voice brought her back. "You're gonna break your brain."

Buffy's hands shook as she reached up to massage her temples. "Ouch."

"You're thinking about it too much. You gotta chill."

"How can I not?" she retorted weakly. "Next you're gonna tell me dragons and unicorns exist, too."

"They don't," Faith said, "that I know of."

Buffy was only somewhat mollified by this revelation.

"What do you need from me?" Valkyrie asked again, brows furrowed as she studied the frightened blonde.

"We need your help with concealing spells," Giles explained. "We need to keep her hidden as long as possible, and she is most certainly being tracked by the Family. We had to leave her whole apartment behind, full of her things."

Valkyrie winced. "God damn. You should've at least torched the place."

"There was no time," Faith cut in defensively. "We had to blow town ASAP."

The woman nodded pensively and crossed her arms. "Who's heading up the Family these days?"

"Angelus."

She frowned at the watcher. "Velthur's son?"

"Yes."

"I have no idea how he likes his magic," she said, starting to look genuinely concerned. "I don't know a thing about him, except that he drinks blood, which doesn't help us much."

"Anything you can come up with is better than what we have," Giles said, looking at Buffy. "She's wearing one of Faith's concealing charms, but it won't hold out much longer, if it hasn't given way already."

"If they had found you, ya'll would know," Valkyrie replied. "Believe me." She glanced thoughtfully out the window, manicured fingers tapping against her thigh. "You have a pad in town?"

Rupert nodded. "I have an agent working on it now. We're trying to close on a property in Dallas. I'll know within the hour."

"Really? No Council safe house here?"

"Not here, no," he confirmed, checking his phone. "There was never any need for a permanent base of operations in the DFW metroplex."

Valkyrie nodded thoughtfully. "Well, once you get that sorted out I can do an onsite and secure the place, work a little mojo to keep the baddies out. The spells will be strongest if she stays on the immediate property. I don't know how long you want to keep her hidden, but the spells will hold up longer if she doesn't move around very much."

Buffy's heart sank, but both Faith and Giles nodded lightly, as if they already knew this. They were going to lock her up. She curled her hands into angry little fists and tried to stay calm.

"You," Valkyrie said suddenly, "Buffy, right? Bring yourself over here for a minute."

Buffy shuffled into the kitchen and the witch prompted her to sit on the long bench next to the table. She leaned over and reached for Buffy's neck. The blonde instinctively jerked away.

"It's okay, darlin'. I'm not gonna hurt you. I just need to see this pretty, silver cross 'round your neck."

In an instant, Faith was at her side, scooting up next to her on the bench. She took Buffy's hand and squeezed gently, peering at her through flickering brown orbs. Buffy's heart skipped a beat, and her breath came a little faster. Faith brushed a thumb over the back of her hand. Her skin tingled pleasantly.

"It's okay, B," she murmured, and Buffy was really starting to like the pleasantly ragged quality of her voice, "she's going to strengthen the cloaking spell on my necklace. That one I loaned you."

Buffy swallowed and pressed a hand to her throat, unnerved when she felt the outline of a thick cross against her clavicle, warmed by her body heat and all but forgotten in the chaos of the previous 12 hours. Faith reached over slowly and undid the clasp, fingers brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. A small, electric pulse spread outward from the spot, and Buffy's head drooped forward until her chin tapped her chest. She was hardly aware that her eyes had fluttered closed until Valkyrie started speaking again. Faith had lifted the necklace up and handed it over. The witch was now digging through her kitchen cabinets, dictating instructions to Giles as she pulled jars of ingredients off the shelves. Buffy watched them move around through half lidded eyes. Her ears were buzzing pleasantly, and she felt like she was sitting in a fuzzy cocoon. Faith was watching Valkyrie use a stick of hot pink chalk to draw a pentagram on the unvarnished wooden table top, but she had curled her fingers into Buffy's again. It troubled Buffy more than a little that she hadn't felt so grounded in months.

When Valkyrie was finished drawing her pentagram, marking the appropriate symbols in the appropriate places, she dusted off her hands and turned to help Giles grind the rest of the herbs. Buffy observed all of it a with mild, almost lazy amusement. So, the pentagrams were a real thing? She didn't quite believe it at first, but as Valkyrie laid the silver crucifix in the center of the star, over a rather detailed drawing of a bleeding eye, and began lighting candles, a chill of uncertainty swept through her. Faith tightened her hold.

"C'mon, B." She climbed to her feet and helped the blonde up. "Let's stand over here out of the way."

"I call upon the goddess," Valkyrie began, spreading her hands, closing her eyes, "I call upon her to imbue this token with her magic, that I might be obscured from my enemies, and pass safely through their malicious nets."

She reached for the bowl of crushed herbs and sprinkled them over the pentagram, uttering a few quiet words in a language that Buffy recognized to be Latin. It was all very weird, and fairly unimpressive, until, with a flourish of her hands and a sharp command, the tips of her brown fingers began to glow a pale blue. The room dimmed around them, as though a shadow had descended on the table and wrapped them up in a dark bubble. Valkyrie's solemn chanting seemed to gather the timbre of several new, incorporeal voices. The words vibrated in Buffy's chest, each syllable thrumming with mystic energy. Faith tightened her hold on Buffy, wrapping her up in her arms, placing a hand over her mouth. She leaned in close, breath tickling the blonde's ear.

"Stay quiet," she whispered. "If you speak now you'll mess up the spell and piss off the goddess."

Buffy nodded dumbly, but she was entirely too shocked to speak. Her eyes were bugging out of her head. Her muscles were quivering like a bowl of jelly. It was the first evidence of the supernatural she had seen since her throw down with Faith in the hotel room the night before, and she shuddered as the voices of all her doubts were silenced together, like candles extinguished in the wind. When the silver cross rose up off the table and began to revolve in the air, glowing a brilliant gold, Buffy's heart felt like it was going to give out.

Faith seemed to understand. She pulled her closer.

"It's okay," she murmured, so softly that only Buffy could hear. "You're okay."

The glowing pendant spun faster and faster, throwing out sparks of light like little rockets from its luminous center. Valkyrie's chanting reached a fever pitch, and then, suddenly, her eyes flashed the same pale blue as her fingers, and the cross stilled. She reached out to grab it, and as her hand closed around it, the darkness lifted, and room returned to its previous state.

"Thanks be to goddess," Valkyrie murmured, bowing her head.

Giles and Faith did the same, uttering their thanks, and Faith whispered in Buffy's ear that she should join in. The blonde was shaking as she mimed their actions. When she lifted her head again she saw that Valkyrie was moving toward her. She flinched, but the witch simply threaded the cross pendant back onto its silver chain and reached over to fasten it behind the blonde's neck.

"You okay?" Faith asked in her ear, and Buffy realized with a start that the brunette's arms were still wrapped around her torso.

She had all but forgotten.

"Fine," she breathed, sighing as she inadvertently inhaled the scent of old spice and and cigarettes.

She wondered when Faith had found the time to smoke. Giles gave her a curious look that she dodged, gracefully untangling herself from the slayer's hold.

"That should keep her under the radar for a few days, at least."

"Thank you again. We couldn't have done this without you."

"Don't worry, Rupert. Happy to help. Besides, it's going on the Council's tab."

Giles and Valkyrie continued to talk shop in the kitchen, but Faith took Buffy by the sleeve and lead her out the back door into the blinding, evening sunshine. It was pushing 100 degrees, and the blonde broke a sweat the second the door closed behind them. Faith looked just as uncomfortable, if not more so, peeling off her denim jacket and laying it over the back of a patio chair. She rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, over the lattice of raised scars. Buffy's eyes followed the movement closely. It was becoming a habit, an _unconscious_ habit. She hadn't caught herself in time to stop it, and when she did, she wondered why she felt that she needed to.

"So, you okay?" Faith brushed her hair off her neck, and again, Buffy watched. "Any questions? Comments? Concerns?"

Guiltily, Buffy tore her eyes and wandered down the stamped concrete steps toward the pool. She approached the edge, kicked off her borrow flip flop, and dipped her toes in, but it was bathwater warm. She frowned.

"No," she said.

"No?" Faith echoed, clearly surprised.

Buffy sighed heavily and sat down on the side of the pool. She stripped off her other sandal and dunked her legs in the water. It was only mildly refreshing. She heard the rustling of fabric behind her and turned around to find Faith rolling up the legs of her pants. She ditched her boots and joined Buffy next to the pool.

"It's too hot for those here," Faith grumbled. "If I didn't have to be ready to fight hordes of demons at a moment's notice I'd wear sandals."

"You can't take down demons in a pair of Nikes?"

"I can dust demons with a dull pencil," Faith bragged, "but I prefer to use steel-toed boots."

Buffy offered her a small, but genuine smile. "I'd like to see that," she admitted.

"I'll show you sometime."

"Really?"

"Yeah," the brunette shrugged, "we're gonna have to start training you right away, anyhow. I might as well show you a few tricks."

Buffy's smile faltered. "What are you training me for?"

"To become a slayer." Faith glanced sidelong at her. "You didn't think you were just going to become a badass assassin overnight, did you?"

"N-n- … I hadn't really…"

"Thought about it?"

Buffy rubbed her eyes. "Yeah... Like, I really wasn't taking any of this seriously until a few minutes ago when Valkyrie…" she flicked her wrist, "did the glowy thing."

Faith laughed. "The glowy thing? Nice."

"Whatever you call it," Buffy said, blushing. "Magic. Whatever."

"That's pretty much how I feel about it, too. I leave the magic to them and focus on kicking butt." Faith slammed a fist into her palm.

"So, this is really happening?" Buffy said, expression heavy as she gazed out at the pool. "My whole life has really been a lie up until now?"

"Eh, I wouldn't say the _whole_ thing's been a lie, but uh," Faith shrugged, "yeah."

"I still can't believe _you're_ not the crazy one." The blonde heaved a mirthless laugh and shook her head. "I feel numb."

"Yeah, you'll feel that way for a while, but it gets better."

Buffy's lips twitched. "It kinda sounds like you talking me out of the closet."

Faith snorted. "I'm not, unless you want me to." She pulled a smushed pack of Camels out of her pants pocket. "Cigarette?"

Buffy arched a brow. "I don't smoke."

"Yeah, not yet."

"It's bad for you," she said mechanically.

"So's vampire slaying." Faith flicked her lighter and brought the tiny flame to the end of the wrinkled white cylinder, "S'not like I'm gonna live past 30 anyway."

The blonde looked at her sharply. "What?"

"Yeah," she said tightly, exhaling a bit of smoke. "I thought I told you that last night. Giles should've said something, too. Slayers don't live very long." Her rich brown eyes seemed hard and dull as they met Buffy's. "My death is longer overdue."

Buffy blanched. "Wait, so when Giles said that there was one in every generation-"

"He actually meant only one, yep." Faith nodded and inhaled some more smoke. "Technically, you're my replacement."

The blonde was silent for a long moment absorbing this, and Faith let her be. She kicked her feet about in the water, idly studying the trees around the edge of the fence, tapping a bit of ash into the pool lazily, like she didn't have a care in the world.

"Can I h-have one of those, please?" Buffy asked after a minute, sounding very small.

Faith smiled and handed her the box. "Atta girl."

* * *

_A/N: I have a surprise for ya'll. Could it be another chapter this week? _

_Hmm..._

_Btws, I am looking for an amazing beta reader. Please let me know if you or anyone you know is interested. Must be amazing :)_


	13. Deep In the Heart of Texas

_10.14.15_

_I promised you guys another chapter this week. Let the record show that I delivered on my promise._

_Enjoy!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**12\. Deep In the Heart of Texas**

_September 12 - Dallas, TX_

The following evening came quickly. Buffy stayed with Faith again at the hotel, this time in her own bed, and the next morning, while Giles signed for the house, they drove around town shopping for supplies in celebrity-esque disguises of baseball caps and large sunglasses. They moved through stores at a fast clip, picking up everything from lamps, blankets, and pillows to crash mats, punching bags, and weights that Buffy couldn't even lift.

"Lemme get those," the brunette had said, hoisting three 100 pound dumbbells up under one arm like they were a set of plastic toys. "Can you grab a couple jump ropes?"

Intimidating didn't even begin to cover it.

Later, Faith emptied the truck while Buffy puttered around mindlessly in the kitchen, stacking a brand new set of utilitarian white plates in the cabinet. It was sweltering outside, and the old AC unit was struggling to catch up. It rattled and sputtered in the back hallway where Giles paced back and forth, jabbering into his cell phone. Buffy wasn't even sure what language he was speaking. She added the last plate to the stack and turned toward the next box. Her grand task of organizing the kitchen was far from inspiring, but it did give her some time to reflect on something other than vampires, or her maybe-not-so crazy kidnappers. Home decor was a safe topic to linger on in her tired, reeling mind. Her hands paused over the next box, and her eyes strayed down to the dark bruises on her arms. Faith hadn't exactly been gentle when she had rushed them both out of the motel room.

What had ever happened to Willow…?

"Buffy! Have you called your parents?"

She squeaked and jumped away from the box in surprise as Giles emerged suddenly from the hallway, phone still glued to his ear. Any little thing startled her now, set her frail heart pounding like the devil was after her. She swallowed hard and crossed her arms over her chest to hide the tremor in her hands.

"Well?"

Her head jerked sharply. "N-no."

The watcher's brow relaxed. "Ah. Good. Don't." He started to retreat out of sight, but a thought seemed to occur to him and he popped back around the corner. "In fact, don't use a phone at all today, alright?"

Buffy nodded glumly, turning back to the dishes and to the numbing fog of ignorance. This whole kidnapping/rescuing thing was beginning to feel like a bad trip. She had chewed her manicured nails to the quick, braided and unbraided her golden hair three dozen times, worked a hole through the cuff of Faith's Boston College sweatshirt, and all the while maintained a shell-shocked silence that seemed to bother neither Faith, nor Giles. They pressed on with their affairs and dragged her along behind them like a child accompanying her parents on their weekend errands. There was something fundamentally disconcerting about it all. They were almost too calm, too rehearsed, as though they had gone through these motions a million times in situations exponentially more dangerous. Today was just another day on the job to them, not the end of Buffy's blissful civilian life. Not her wit's end.

She opened another cabinet and considered the space for a moment. It was more than suitable for the cups and wine glasses. If she played her cards right, she could fit the coffee mugs in there, too. Would Giles let her pick out some hand towels to hang next to the sink? That didn't seem so unreasonable. If they were going to hold her hostage in their hellish underworld schemes, the least they could do was supply her with proper hand towels. This was America, after all.

Buffy shelved the box of drinkware, and, when she had finished, turned to face the rest of the kitchen wearing a bank, fatigued expression and an oversized black shirt. Using local contacts and private investigators, Giles had confirmed that her apartment in New Orleans had been ransacked, and the place was being watched. He had explained to her gravely, she would have to survive for the foreseeable future without any of her belongings.

Super.

What a way to begin her new life. There were clothes in her closet that she hadn't even worn yet. Buffy frowned at the pile of empty boxes next to the fridge. She wasn't above sulking.

For the time being, she was at the mercy of Faith's wardrobe, which was starving for color, and smacked of lingering daddy issues. Most everything the brunette owned was either economical, threadbare, or biker-bar chic. Buffy peered down at the baggy track shorts she had cinched around her waist. She missed her yummy sushi pajamas. She missed her cruddy apartment and her boring job. She missed her Cole Haan's. Not that she would need them anymore, by the looks of things.

She swept a cardboard box onto the floor and stomped on it, rubbing her nose against the back of her hand. Her allergies were acting up again, or she just cried too much. Lately it was hard to tell.

"Hey, B, could you help me steer this thing?" Faith appeared in the front entryway carrying a queen sized mattress all by herself.

Buffy had grown more accustomed to these displays of inhuman strength, but she found herself blinking in surprise regardless. She bowed her head, trudged over to the door, and together, they maneuvered the mattresses, bed frames, and remaining furniture into both bedrooms.

"So... Giles is staying upstairs?" she asked, for lack of anything else to say, screwing a wooden bed frame together while Faith held the beam in place.

"Yeah, when he's here." The slayer tossed her head, attempting to get an errant lock of hair out of her face. "He likes to keep our rooms apart. I've been known to get a bit loud at night."

The implication behind _that_ was anything but subtle. Buffy grimaced.

"Why didn't we just rent hotel rooms?"

The other woman leaned back on her elbows, pushing her chest out a little. "Two things: one, the vamps can't enter a house unless you give them permission. Makes it safer. And two, whenever we deal with a new baddie, Giles likes to establish HQ somewhere. It makes the whole operation more organized, and we leave behind safe houses when we move on."

To this end, the real estate savvy watcher had selected a small house just off Cedar Springs, west of downtown Dallas. It was a fixer with a ratty yard and a sagging front porch, but the interior sported hardwood floors, high ceilings, crown moulding, and thick, solid walls. The exterior was paved with old brick and outfitted with small windows, making it reasonably defensible, not to mention, as Faith was quick to point out, they were only ten minutes from the nearest hospital, five from the nearest club.

Score one for team vampire hunter.

Giles continued to pace around the house on his phone as the sun dipped low in the sky. The incessant whirring and clicking of the cicadas outside grew louder, and a cloying humidity settled over the city. Bar patrons passed by the house in small groups, their laughter carrying in from the street. The two women finished arranging Faith's bedroom, and moved on to Buffy's, in which they installed two bunk beds. It would double as a guest room, or a barracks, apparently, though Buffy was currently the only occupant. They hung thick blackout drapes on the window, because there would be many late nights, she was informed, and tossed a bean bag in the corner.

"Homey," Faith smirked.

Buffy sort of agreed. It felt like she was at summer camp again.

As most houses in Dallas lacked a basement (something about the city being constructed on a shifting layer of clay?), the screened in porch off the back of the house was designated as the training room. Faith installed a punching bag and a pull up bar while Buffy arranged the new tumble mats. When they had finished with that they moved on to the installation of additional locks and reinforcements on the front and back door. Faith rigged electronic sensors around the perimeter of the property, using Buffy to calibrate the devices, and connected them to alarms inside. They installed security cameras at both entrances, on the roof, and around the yard, which were hooked up to two high definition monitors that the brunette hung on the dining room wall.

Several hours had passed by the time they were finished. Exhausted, Buffy huddled up on the thrift store couch in the adjacent room and watched Faith fiddle with her security set up. She was fascinating to observe, a veritable expert in the field. Her hands moved deftly between the wires, untangling, straightening, cinching them together with zip ties. Her fingers flew over the keys on her laptop. Her eyes tracked rapidly across the screen, back and forth, up and down. Her lips moved softly as she muttered to herself, and her deltoids rippled under her skin as she leaned forward on her elbows, chin resting on her knuckles. The brunette seemed all but unaware of the world beyond her screen, and Buffy herself didn't realize that she had become entranced watching Faith work in the soft lamplight until Giles strode into the room.

"Satsu is coming," he announced triumphantly, checking his watch. "She'll be here within the hour."

Faith jerked and glanced up from her computer. "You startled me, G."

He chuckled. "A slayer should never be startled."

"Amazed I lasted this long, huh?" They smirked at each other.

"E-excuse me…" Buffy cleared her throat, but her voice was still rough from disuse. "Is there anything to eat?"

Giles turned his head in surprise, as if remembering, yet again, that she was there with them. "Oh, yes. I was actually on my way to the store now. I would send Faith," he shot the woman a knowing look, "but she only buys snack food."

"What?" The slayer shrugged. "Ho-hos are better than sex."

"So you've mentioned." He turned his kindly face to the tired blonde. "What would you like from the store, Buffy?"

Her name sounded funny in his stiff, proper English accent. She chewed on her thumb for a long moment, trying to remember what sorts of things she had eaten in her old life, a life that was barely three days behind her, and yet now seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Definitely yogurt," she croaked at last. "And cheerios...and almond milk."

"Good. Consider it done."

"Ho-hos, G." Faith waved her hand at him, still glued to the screen. "And beer."

He rolled his eyes in exasperation and said in a pained tone, "as if I could forget."

"Good watcher."

"I shall return shortly. You girls behave."

Silence descended upon the room almost immediately after his departure. Without anything better to do, Buffy occupied herself by observing a spider in the corner of the room, and when she tired of that, she tried to take a nap. Her rest was disturbed, however, by a loud, heavy knock at the front door. She peeled back her eyelids in time to see the laconic brunette glance up at the surveillance monitors. A faint smile slid across her face.

"Well, well…"

"Who is it?" Buffy asked quietly.

"Satsu."

"How do you know?"

Faith tapped her ear. "Super hearing, remember?"

The chair screeched and her boots thumped on the floor, and in the blink of a normal, human eye, she had flung the door open.

"Get the fuck outta here, Sushi. Nobody wants ya."

A lilting, feminine giggle floating in from the porch, just beyond Buffy's line of vision. It clashed so dramatically with Faith's smoky, townie accent that it was almost comical. Rubbing her eyes, Buffy straightened up on the couch to get a better look at the newest arrival.

"Faith! I missed you!"

A slender girl with porcelain skin and black hair rushed forward and seized the dark brunette around the waist. Faith awkwardly, but sincerely, returned the motion by wrapping her up in a tight hug. With a contented sigh, the girl stepped back, and the small blonde caught sight of her face for the first time. She was obviously Asian -Japanese if Buffy had to guess- and attractive. Very attractive. Her style was similar to Faith's, dressed for the weather in dark jeans and a grey racerback, but she wasn't ragged around the edges, and there was a quality of good breeding about her. Her hair splashed down around her shoulders, silky and straight, so shiny that Buffy was instantly jealous. This girl had won the genetic lottery.

"How have you been?" she asked, bubbling with excitement. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

Faith tried to smirk, but Buffy detected something else stirring beneath her cool venir. Fondness?

"I've been alright. Lying low, mostly."

"You're always lying low."

"It keeps me alive."

"When are you going to come back to Japan? My parents are always asking about you."

The slayer smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "Soon. Tell sensei I miss his curry."

"He sent some with me," the girl winked, "but I couldn't get it through customs."

Faith groaned. "Son of bitch!" She moved to shut the door and caught sight of the blonde huddled up on the couch. "Oh, yeah Satsu, this is Buffy. Buffy, Satsu."

Satsu eyed her curiously, but not unkindly. "Nice to meet you."

Buffy nodded, unable, for some reason, to find her voice.

"She's our latest case." Faith plopped down at the table. "Another potential with an _Earth-shattering_ prophecy attached to her."

"Really? She looks a bit old to be a potential." Satsu turned to look at the exhausted blonde. "How old are you?"

"U-um...23."

Satsu dropped her duffle bag, pulled out a chair across from Faith, and sat down. "I think you had better catch me up."

Faith shrugged. "It's pretty simple, actually. Buffy here is being hunted by a clan of old vampires because there is a prophecy that she will be the one to end their family line."

"Which clan?"

"The Family."

"That's not good!"

Faith snorted. "Understatement of the year."

Satsu rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Catch me up already."

Faith launched into a rather blase account of the last three days, and spent a good thirty minutes hashing out the details of the operation with Satsu, discussing possible next steps, but Buffy tuned them out. She was definitely sulking. Was she still sulking about her clothes? Or was it because she felt forgotten. After being so attentive the day before, Faith had become gradually more distracted by the tasks at hand, and now that Satsu was here...

Buffy's head fell back against the couch. Giles was taking a long time at the store, and her blood sugar was dangerously low. She was tetchy, growing more disagreeable by the minute, not at all in the mood to listen to Faith and her gorgeous friend hash out all of the ways she could die.

"I'm gonna go to bed," she announced suddenly, clambering off the couch.

"Okay, g'night," Faith waved at her.

"It was nice to meet you," Satsu added politely.

Buffy just grunted. She didn't feel like playing nice.

She wandered to her room, the one she would be sharing with Satsu, she realized, and quietly closed the door behind her. The space was sterile and bare. She had nothing to fill it with. No clothes. No possessions. No evidence that she had ever been a person with a real life. The cold tendrils of despair reached around her heart and squeezed. Faith seemed so comfortable with her hunted, nomadic existence. Buffy just felt lost, disoriented the literal instant she was plucked out of her cushy life.

Pathetic.

Buffy switched on the bedside lamp and approached the bunk. The sheets and blankets were all brand new, and the distinct scent of fresh linen wafted up towards her. Sighing, she stooped down, grabbed the borrowed Boston College sweatshirt off the ground, and pressed it against her face. The faint scent of cigarettes and old spice was, in that instant, the most comforting thing she could imagine. She crawled into bed, wrapped herself around it, and closed her eyes, willing sleep to take her.

**/ / / **

Faith carried a kettle of jasmine tea to the table and set out a pair of glazed, ceramic cups. Satsu accepted one gratefully.

"I never thought you would actually drink this," she said. "You always have beer instead."

Faith smiled ruefully. "There's no beer."

"That explains a lot."

"I'll manage until G gets back." The slayer took her seat and poured them both a cup. "It won't kill me."

"I'm starting to think nothing will."

Faith gave her a dark smile. "Keep dreamin'."

Satsu just hummed into her tea.

The conversation flowed on naturally for a time, dipping in and out of personal matters, what they'd been occupied with, and, as always, who Satsu's parents were trying to marry her off to. The latest suitor was a karate master with his own dojo, who, Faith commented wryly, was certainly a better prospect than the slew of boring salarymen they had foisted upon her in the past.

"You would think they'd bother my sister more," she whined. "Momo's older than me, and she's been buried in her research for years. I don't think she even _has _a boyfriend. Why don't they try to marry _her _to dojo guy?!"

Faith scoffed at the idea. "Momo doesn't give a shit what they say. She always just does her own thing, y'know?" The slayer pointed an accusatory finger at the other girl. "That's what you should do. You argue with them too fucking much. They know you're listening. It means you care what they think."

Satsu slumped in her seat. "You're right."

"Usually."

"Occasionally."

"More often than _you_."

Satsu adorned an expression of mock indignation. "No way!"

Giles chose this moment to strumble through the front door juggling half a dozen bags of groceries. He fumbled with the keys, nearly tripping on his own shoes, as his eyes found Satsu, grinning brightly from the table.

"Well, hello!" he cried, lighting up. "It's wonderful to see you again!"

Faith ducked out to the car to get more groceries, but Satsu leapt up from her chair and helped the aging watcher into the kitchen, smiling and chattering while he laughed.

"Your father is well?"

"Akimoto sensei has never been better," she winked. "Retirement suits him well."

"Glad to hear it." The watcher opened their brand new fridge, still smelling strongly of fresh plastic, and began haphazardly tossing yogurt containers onto the top shelf. "I should be so lucky to enjoy retirement one day."

"You'd never retire, Rupert. You'd get too bored."

"You never know," he replied wistfully. "I might."

They prepared a hasty meal together. Faith was trusted with the chopping and prep work, slugging down the first of several beers, while Giles played sous chef with Satsu. The watcher didn't sit down to eat with them, however. He was drawn away suddenly and mysteriously by another important phone call. He advised them not to wait up and disappeared up the stairs without sampling more than a bite of Satsu's stir fry. Faith grabbed another beer from the fridge before settling herself heavily at the head of the table.

"I'm starving," she moaned, digging into her plate. "I moved furniture around all day and I haven't eaten since noon."

Satsu pulled a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks from her bag and daintily broke them apart. She plucked a pea pod from her dish.

"At least you weren't on a plane all day."

"Do you always carry those things with you?" Faith asked, speaking around a mouthful of rice.

"I'm Japanese. Bite me."

Faith snickered, and they lapsed into companionable silence until their plates were cleared and stacked in the dishwasher. The slayer disposed of her sweaty, leather boots by the front door and collapsed onto the couch. Satsu was quick to follow suit, stretching her long, elegant legs before delicately climbing over the brunette's haphazard limbs and settling herself on top.

"This couch is so comfortable," Satsu murmured, nuzzling into Faith's belly.

"I told G we had to have a sectional this time. I'm a slayer, not a caveman."

"The last one was terrible."

"It had a busted spring."

"I know! I slept on it."

"You could've slept with me."

Satsu raised her head, but Faith wouldn't meet her eyes. "Not with Robin there." She waited for a response, sighing softly when nothing came. "How is Buffy? She looks totally freaked out."

"Yeah. She flipped when I told her about vampires. Started screaming the place down."

"The Council never found her?"

"Nope."

"That's…isn't that kind of weird?"

"The whole fucking thing is weird." Faith shifted under Satsu's weight. "She's never even had the dreams."

"Are you sure she's a potential?"

"I'm not sure of anything anymore."

Satsu placed her hand on the slayer's collar and traced an old scar with her fingertips. "How are you?"

"Five by five."

"You feel tense." She swept her hand up the woman's neck and pressed her fingertips into the muscles there.

Faith sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "I've been worse, but..." she bit her lip, "Robin- he…"

A finger landed on the slayer's lips. "I heard what happened."

"You did?"

"I did." Satsu sighed. "Faith, I'm so sorry."

Faith cleared her throat, blinking rapidly to clear the moisture away. "Me too."

"I should've called sooner."

"No, no you're fine." The brunette looked away. "I wouldn't have answered."

"I should've called anyway."

Faith started to protest, but Satsu leaned up to kiss her chin, and she let it drop.

"It was foolish to get attached," she said instead, after a moment of comfortable silence. "Slayers don't get to have permanent things. We're not meant for forever."

Satsu hummed against her chest. "I don't think it's foolish to want to come home to someone," she said thoughtfully. "It's one of those human things. You are still human, right, Faith?" She giggled, but the teasing smile slipped off her face when she raised her head and caught sight of the brunette's expression.

"Crap," she muttered.

Hot tears slid across Faith's cheeks, pooling against her lips, dripping into her ears. Her eyes were pinched shut. Her fingers were curled into the sofa. Satsu could feel the slayer's chest shuddering with each breath, trembling with the effort, and she couldn't stand it. She couldn't watch it. Within seconds, she had pushed herself up to eye level and pressed her mouth hard against Faith's chapped lips. Rough hands immediately threaded into her silky hair, tangling, pulling, grasping as Faith brought her close and anchored her there. Her fingers scraped across Satsu's body with a terrified urgency, and she felt a sudden stab of pain in her chest. She could feel the slayer's grief in every desperate touch. It wasn't just, what the gods asked. It wasn't fair.

Faith broke away briefly, gasping for air. "Satsu-"

"I know," she murmured, ducking lower, pressing kisses below Faith's jaw.

"Satsu, I need y-"

"I know. It's okay." She kissed her pulse point. "I'm here."

She sucked Faith's skin between her teeth and bit down, marking her, imparting her frustration onto the slayer's marred body, and when a primal sound tore through Faith lips, Satsu wasn't sure if it was a sob or a moan.

* * *

_A/N: I'm still searching for a beta. Just, you know, putting that out there in case one of you wants to do it... no pressure..._


	14. Helpless

_12.15.15_

_Hey guys, I've got a chapter for you, finally. I've been really lean on free time this holiday season, so I'm not sure whether I'll be able to get you another update until January. I know it sucks. Them's the breaks. _

_Also, content warning: vampires are not politically correct. _

_Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and thanks for reading!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**13\. Helpless**

_September 13 - Upstate New York_

"I'm ordering a fatwa."

"What?"

"You know, that Muslim thing where you tell all your followers to kill someone?" Angelus plopped a ripe cherry in his mouth and suckled it. "That thing."

"I'm fairly certain that's blasphemous, what you just said."

The vampire tipped his head back and laughed. "Fuck, you're great! This is why I keep you around, man!" He reached for his goblet of cabernet sauvignon and gulped half of it down. "But seriously," he wiped his mouth on his hand, "it's time to kill this Buffy chick. Spike's already shot up two locations so it's not exactly a secret. Why not get the whole family in on this? Her head on a sil- no, her head on a _gold_ platter for all the blood, babes, and cash you can handle. What do you think?"

Marchisto examined his nails, lacquered a garish red, and filed into sharp points. "Assuming the towelheads don't bomb us first for dishonoring their god?"

"Yeah," Angelus snorted. "Assuming that."

"M'kay. It's a good idea."

"Why not, right?"

"Yeah, fuck. Do it."

Angelus leaned back in his velvet chair, propping his heavy boots up on the mahogany coffee table. "You know, half those towelheads work for demons. Keeps the region delightfully unstable. Nobody's about to look for missing people in a warzone."

"No wonder your clubs look like Turkish brothels."

"Don't be a racist, Marc." Angelus snorted. "There're mostly Syrians and Iraqis. A smattering of peninsular Arabs, Pakistanis, and Africans, maybe. No Turks."

"Unholy christ, I could care less."

"And yet, you'll sit here and educate me about what's haram?"

"Shut up."

Marchisto ran his sharp nails through a neat mane of blonde hair, slicked back across his pale scalp. He bore no resemblance to Angelus, except that they were both cold and beautiful. He lit a cigarette and sucked on it steadily, expression pinched and brooding, cast half in dim lamplight, and half in shadow on the leather couch. Rain lashed against the windows on either side of the fireplace. He adjusted the lapel of his suit jacket as he tucked the cardboard packet away, glancing irately at Angelus, who continued to watch him.

"Haven't you got any playthings around," he snapped. "I could use my dick sucked."

"I sent them to bed after you nearly drained three girls." Angelus undid a button on his white, French-cut shirt, speckled with crimson across the chest.

"In my defense, none of them weighed more than a 115 pounds."

"That's awfully precise of you." Angelus struck a match against the sole of his shoe and watched it burn down between his fingertips. "I mean, they're a bit stressed out. Can you blame them?" He smiled until his fangs gleamed. "Then again, I've grown to like the taste of adrenaline."

"It's bitter."

"Such is life."

"Max said you've kept them for a while."

Angelus shrugged. "I tend to."

"He said there's one in particular."

"Yeah? What else do you and Max gossip about while you're braiding each other's hair?"

"So, it's true."

"Sure."

"Are you attached?"

"I'm addicted." Angelus sighed languidly and let his head fall back against the velvet. "She tastes so good. Draining her in one go would be a waste."

"You could turn her."

"But then I couldn't drink her, could I?"

Marchisto scowled. "You've always been indulgent, but this is exactly the sort of thing Velthur would've hated."

Angelus scoffed. "Good old Dad. How's he doing down there in Hell? Working a few strokes off his game at the country club?"

"Angel."

"For fuck's sake, I don't care about his archaic notions of 'demonocracy', or whatever the hell he thought us vampires should be. This is a new world order, and it's so much more fun than the old one, don't you think?" Angelus spread his arms. "I mean look at us. Look at this estate! Look at the power and wealth I have at my disposal. You really want to give this up so that we can return to some, archaic, archetypal, medieval power structure?"

"Fuck off. It worked for our predecessors for over a thousand years."

"I'm sorry," he cupped a hand around his ear, "did you say predecessors?"

Marchisto ground his teeth.

"That's right, they aren't around anymore to tell us how things should run. And why? Because the slayers dusted them and sent their miserable souls back to hell!"

"It's a bad idea to mingle so closely with humans like this. We're not meant to. It's unnatural."

Angelus scoffed. "Unnatural? Who are you, Thomas Hobbes? God, next you'll lecture me on the state of nature. We're all at war with one another! We do what we have to in order to survive! Co-existence is impossible!"

Marchisto rolled his eyes. "That's not what Hobbes said at all."

"Close enough. Look, you live your life however you want, and let me live mine in peace."

"How can I? Everyone's following you now."

Angelus killed his goblet of wine and poured another. "I guess they like what I'm selling."

"You're gonna ruin all of us," Marchisto snarled, grinding his cigarette out against the mahogany table.

"I wish you wouldn't do that to the table."

"You're drawing way too much attention."

Angelus winced. "Seriously, it's an antique."

"Government agencies are starting to pay attention. Human technology is getting better-"

"-Oh my god, _here_. Here's an ashtray-"

"-And don't forget about the fucking Council. The Council is stronger and more connected than ever. What are you gonna do about that?"

Angelus growled and snapped his fingers for a maid. "I've got it under control." A busty young woman in a French maid uniform appeared at his side. "Clean and polish that, would you? Before it's ruined."

She glanced sidelong at Marchisto, long limbs rigid, fangs out, seething on the couch.

"Don't worry, sweetcheeks. I'll handle him if he gets too rowdy." Angelus winked.

"Yes, my lord."

She left to find the wood polish.

"Pathetic." Marchisto grumbled, reaching inside his suit jacket for another cigarette.

"Tell me, honestly, that you don't like being called 'my lord', and I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

The blonde vampire smoked in silence for a full minute, mutinous expression fading slowly into one of mild annoyance. Smoke slithered languidly around his long, slender fingers, curling up into the dark room beyond the reach of the tiny reading lamp. Outside, the wind howled through the eaves.

"You regularly fuck these human women," he said, at length.

"All of them," Angelus replied indolently. "Whenever and wherever I want."

"But you don't drain them?"

"Sometimes." Angelus waved a hand. "It's easy to get carried away. You know. But there's always more."

Marchisto's lip curled. "You're getting complacent."

"I resent that."

"Where's your pride, Angel? You're a vampire."

"Look, it's obvious that you're still hung up on some things, but I really don't care what the old world demons think about what I do. This," he gestured at the grand, old sitting room, "is my kingdom, and I am its king, and I do what I like according to my authority." He caught the maid by the arm as she scurried back into the room, carrying a rag, and a bottle of polish. "What's your name, darlin'?" he asked.

"M-Meredith."

"Meredith?" His sharp canines glinted in the low light. "Would you do me a favor? My friend here is very tense, and he could use a bit of _service_, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, sir."

Marchisto watched with irate ambivalence as she knelt down between his legs and palmed him through his trousers. Her fingers slid quickly up and down, and he grit his teeth as he began to respond. He glanced up at Angelus as the woman reached for his zipper.

"There you go." Angelus smirked. "Dick sucked."

Marchisto twitched as her tongue slid along his length, and he fell back against the couch, deflated. "I 'spose I did ask."

"You did."

"I was mostly kidding."

"Right."

"_Fuck_." Marchisto closed his yellow eyes as her mouth enveloped him.

"Listen," Angelus slipped another cherry between his lips and chewed slowly, "I need something from you."

"Hm?"

"I didn't just ask you here so that you could insult my lifestyle and ruin my things." He glanced at the burned mahogany. "I actually need a favor."

"Mm… What favor?"

"It involves a certain slayer. The one I mentioned earlier."

Marchisto's eyes slid open, as though with great effort. "I thought you said she wasn't a slayer."

"Not yet. Not _ever_, if I can help it." Angelus spit the cherry pit in his hand and dumped it in the crystal ashtray.

"Why should I help you?"

"What do you mean _why_?" Angelus feigned hurt. "We're still blood brothers."

"So?"

"So, I'll reward you handsomely. Name your price."

"Fine. Just tell me what you need me to do." Marchisto's eyes fluttered shut again. "But later. Your voice is grating, and it's ruining my blowjob."

"Does this mean you like her?"

Marchisto growled low in his throat.

"Fine." Angelus grinned wickedly and reached for more wine. "Later."

/ / /

_September 13 - Dallas, TX_

Buffy didn't leave her bed the next day, not that it seemed to bother anyone else in the house. Giles was still out on some unspecified errand. Faith and Satsu were distracted with each other. She heard them through the wall sometime early in the morning, the odd thump and moan disturbing the silver, predawn quiet. It took her an hour and two pillows piled over her head to fall back asleep.

The smell of garlic and cooking oil roused her, aching, from her bunk sometime that evening. Giles' voice carried in from the hallway, conversing haltingly on the phone in yet another language she didn't recognize. She blinked in the dark and listened to the boards squeaking under the watcher's shoes as he paced, the loose bolt rattling in the the air conditioning unit, music drifting in from the kitchen, punctuated at intervals by easy laughter and clacking dishes, the leaves outside her window rustling in the breeze, whispering over the hum of lonely cicadas and cricket songs. Buffy's eyes slipped closed. She was dehydrated, and her head ached. She felt that she could sleep forever.

She turned over onto her back and sighed.

"Buffy?" A gentle knock jolted her out of her thoughts. Yellow light spilled into the room as Satsu popped her head inside. "Hey! Do you want dinner?"

"Hey, um…" Buffy hesitated, intending to decline, but her stomach rumbled loudly.

Satsu smiled. "I'll take that as a yes."

The blonde snorted softly in spite of herself. "I guess, so, yeah." Buffy pushed back the covers and sat upright, noting dully that her body was sticky and overheated. "What time is it?"

"Seven. Are you feeling okay? You've been asleep all day."

"I didn't sleep well last night."

Satsu leaned up against the doorframe and crossed her arms. "I didn't sleep for a year when I found out."

Buffy rubbed her aching eyes. "How'd you find out?"

"I'm a potential."

Buffy's eyes widened, and she regarded her with renewed interest. "Really?"

"Yeah. Faith didn't tell you?"

"No," Buffy looked away and scratched her arm. "They didn't even tell me you were coming."

Satsu stepped fully into the room. "I had been having all of these weird dreams about women I had never met. My parents thought I was possessed or something." She smiled and knelt down seiza-style on the floor in front of Buffy. "They covered the house in Shinto charms that are supposed to ward off evil. I just thought I was going crazy."

"Who told you about-" Buffy motioned vaguely with her hands.

"About vampires?" Satsu smiled sympathetically. "A watcher came to my house and asked for me when I turned 16. My parents thought that the government had sent him to take me away. He had to show us magic so they would believe him."

Buffy stared. "That sounds…"

"Scary? Ridiculous?"

"Both."

"Yeah." Satsu brushed a curtain of hair off her neck, and Buffy unconsciously counted the hickies now exposed. "Ichiro-sensei was a little intimidating, but he was a really dedicated watcher. He took me to Oxford, and I trained there until I was 18." She smiled at her hands. "That's how I met Faith."

"Are you," Buffy bit her lip, "are you and Faith together?"

Satsu didn't answer for a long moment, just studied the scuffed floorboards with thoughtful eyes. "When you've seen as much darkness as we have, you take comfort wherever you can find it."

Buffy had the sudden, overwhelming feeling that her own knowledge of the "scary" was just the tip of the hellish iceberg. "Okay," she replied, weakly.

"There's mapo tofu in the kitchen if you're hungry," Satsu said, climbing to her feet. "Come get you some."

/ / /

"So, Buffy," Faith said, after dinner. "You tired of being weak and helpless yet?"

There were three bowls and several cans of beer spread out in front of her on the table. She was leaning back in her chair, arms folded behind her head. A cigarette poked out behind her ear, crisp white against her wild, dark hair, placed there with the intention of being smoked and forgotten. Sweat glistened in the hollow of her throat, and in the ridges on her chest, glistening in the soft light above the curve of her black tank top. Buffy dragged her eyes up to Faith's, pausing for only a moment to question what it was she found so particularly fascinating about the slayer's body before deciding she didn't want to know.

"If there's something I can do to prepare myself," she said, voice carefully even, "I'd like to know what that is."

Faith smiled sincerely, and it was a little blinding.

Satsu broke the spell. "It's pretty simple, really," she said, a trace of her Londoner accent creeping in. "Your new best friend will be a proper strength and conditioning regimen. Normally conditioning would come first, and then combat training, but we're short on time, so we'll have to mix and match."

"I was a cheerleader in school," Buffy offered.

They gazed back at her, nonplussed, and she flushed.

"We did strength and conditioning, too, was all I meant," she added, testily. "I'm not completely out of shape."

"This'll be different." Faith tipped the chair forward, and her hands landed flat on the table. "It'll be a lot harder than cheerleading."

"Hey, cheerleading is hard." Buffy crossed her arms. "It's not the marshmallow sport everyone makes it out to be."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Fine, well, we'll see what you're made of tomorrow morning."

"What's happening tomorrow morning?"

"We're going for a run."

"Cheerleaders run," Buffy retorted. "That doesn't sound so _amazingly_ difficult."

Satsu winced.

"_What_? They do!"

Faith smirked and leaned across the table. "You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you can sprint a mile flat out without puking I'll never make fun of another cheerleader for the rest of my life."

Buffy swallowed hard. "Fine," she said, eyes shifting between them.

Satsu got up from the table and padded into the living room. "You're gonna regret it."

"Whatever." Buffy stood and gathered her dishes together with Faith's. "I regret being born at the moment."

She stomped off toward the kitchen and missed the frown Faith and Satsu exchanged behind her.

/ / /

By mile four Buffy was begging Faith to stop.

"Please!" she wheezed. "Come on!"

"Almost done!" the slayer called, over her shoulder.

Buffy nearly cried aloud. Her feet were heavy, useless bricks, her laces were coming undone on one shoe, and her lungs were burning like the fires of hell. Each ragged breath she took felt like a small agony, like the dry, Saharan winds battering scorched earth, and still, she couldn't get the oxygen she so desperately needed. Faith, for her part, had slowed her pace considerably, but it wasn't nearly enough. Buffy needed to be at a dead stop immediately, preferably on the ground.

She got her wish abruptly when her sluggish foot caught on a protruding tree branch and she tumbled, face first, into the dirt.

"B?"

Faith circled around and came back to her.

"You okay?"

Surprisingly kind fingers brushed the hair out of her eyes, wiped the streak of mud off her cheek.

"Ugh." Buffy shut her eyes tight against the sun. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

She heard Faith's sigh and the scratching of gravel as the brunette crouched down next to her. "What happened to being a big bad cheerleader?"

"Mmph… She went and got an office job."

"They don't run you ragged in the business world?"

Buffy groaned. "Does fetching coffee count?"

Faith snorted, and they fell silent together for a bit. Buffy heard a cyclist pass them, wheels sliding on the path as he took the corner and continued up the shallow incline.

"What did you do?" Faith asked suddenly. "Before this?"

"I was an admin assistant... In a law office." Buffy turned over on her back, revealing a pair of nasty, dusty scrapes on her knees. "It wasn't anything special, but... it paid the bills."

Her eyes opened sluggishly and caught Faith's, bright and clear and caramel at the center in the bright, morning sun, peering down at her. Buffy sucked in a shuddering breath, mouth parting slightly. Faith's gaze flitted down ever so briefly, before snapping back, widening almost imperceptibly. She turned away.

"We do what we have to to survive."

Strong arms lifted her up and set her back on her feet. Buffy wobbled, but Faith caught her and held her until she was steady.

"Can you walk back to the car on your own?"

"I think so."

"I mean, unless you'd rather piggyback."

Buffy blinked. She could only sort of remember the last time they had done that, fleeing to the dingy little motel in New Orleans, and yet she remembered exactly how Faith smelled, curled against her, face pressed into the back of her neck, like sweat and blood and old spice and cigarettes, and something else. Something musky. Something sweet. Something that made her quiver in the middle.

Buffy leaned up suddenly against an oak tree, folding her arms across her chest.

"B?"

"I'm fine." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, clearing her thoughts.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She pushed off and staggered down the path. "Let's go."

/ / /

_September 14 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

Agent Riley Finn heard a knock at his office door and checked his watch. It was getting late, pushing eight in the evening. The cuffs of his shirt were rolled up sloppily over his bulky forearms, and his striped tie was rumpled. He had pulled the blinds down against the heat sometime that afternoon, and now that the sun was setting, his office seemed altogether too dark, illuminated only by a dour, fluorescent bulb overheard. He brushed the remnants of a delivery lunch off his desk, and clicked out of sensitive information on his computer screen.

"Come in!"

Agent Cavanaugh opened the door bruskly, followed closely by Agent Park. They were severely mismatched in height and stature, Cavanaugh a tall, hulk of a man that dominated the door frame with bulging shoulders and a broad chest, Park a petite, slender-boned woman whose gun-holster looked so large against her torso that it was almost cartoonish. Cavanaugh smoothed his thick moustache between his thumb and forefinger as he shut the door behind them, pulling out a chair for Park and beckoning for her to sit down. So, he was also old-fashioned, then. Riley noted that with interest, suppressing a smirk when a look of mild annoyance flashed across Park's face. Perhaps he should schedule a talk, man to man, before her temper made things uncomfortable. Or perhaps the two of them would sort it out like adults. Intellectually, effectually, they were equally paired. It would be interesting either way.

Riley smiled. "Park, Cavanaugh. What have you got for me?"

"We were discrete, like you asked," Cavanaugh began, sliding a manilla folder across the desk. "No police tape or marked cars. The apartment was trashed."

Riley opened to a packet of pictures, in high definition, of what had once undoubtedly been a lovely apartment. Not anymore. Someone had clearly taken their frustration out on the walls, punctured here and there with fist-shaped holes and foot-shaped dents. The Ikea furniture was shredded, upturned, or smashed. The quirky, but affordable, Target decorations were shattered and snapped, strewn about the carpet, a collection of silver candle holders with their legs snapped off, the letter 'B', styled in stained wood, ripped out of the wall, colorful, ceramic birds lying prostrate in broken pieces around the kitchen table. Of course, the bedroom was in equally rough shape. Whoever had ransacked the place had done a fair job of turning Ms. Summers' extensive wardrobe into a pile of multicolored fabric scraps. The mattress was shoved up against the wall, shredded. The curtain rod had come down on one side, seasick and off balance.

"Surely, whoever did this made some noise," he mused, flipping through some of the finer, more detailed shots.

"The downstairs neighbor is a flight attendant with American. She hasn't been home much, and doesn't remember hearing anything unusual." Cavanaugh sniffed and cleared his throat. "Ms. Summers has a corner unit, but the neighbors on the other side are probably weed dealers. They wouldn't tell us much."

"Lovely, should we use a little more persuasion?" he turned from Cavanaugh to the woman sitting quietly beside him. "What do you think, Park?"

She straightened in her chair, keen eyes lighting. "They were able to tell us that they heard a lot of noise, but they were intentionally uninterested in getting involved or drawing attention to themselves. The male tennant, Mr. Graham, said that he thought it was a maintenance crew, and never went to check it out."

"When?"

"Just a couple nights ago."

"Who else did you question?"

"Several tenants across the cul-de-sac, and anyone with a good view of Ms. Summers' front door. No one reported anything unusual."

"Okay. Prints?"

"We lifted a couple." Park slid her own folder across the desk. "But, um…" She shifted, and glanced sidelong at her bulky partner. "The results were strange."

"Oh?" Riley arched a brow. "Strange how?" He opened the folder and began to look at the personality profiles staring back him, a pair of old, Irish mugshots.

"The prints were matched back to two brothers, Irish nationals, Angus and Eoin Dougherty. Both were reported missing decades ago by their mother, Maureen Dougherty, and never turned up. They were presumed dead."

Riley bit his thumb thoughtfully. "Very interesting."

"They were involved in the IRA, and later the Provisional IRA as volunteers in the Belfast Brigades after the split in '69."

"Specialized in ballistics and explosives," Riley read aloud, reaching for a highlighter. "Good work, Agent Park."

Cavanaugh bristled. "Sir-"

"Have you had a look at the security footage from McAllister Plaza?" Riley interrupted, and Cavanaugh nodded. "Did you see these men?"

"Possibly," he hedged. "If you turn to the back, you'll find a couple blurry photos of two men, matching their descriptions, in a service van parked out front."

"I see." Riley hummed under his breath, brows knitting. "If this is them, they certainly don't look like the old men they should be."

"Do you think they're...vampires?" Cavanaugh asked cautiously, looking suddenly a bit pale behind his bushy moustache.

Park rolled her eyes. "Vampires melt in the sun."

"Burn up, actually," Riley corrected. "But yes, you are technically correct." He turned to Cavanaugh. "No, I don't think they're vampires. I have no idea what they are, actually, but," he swiveled around in his chair and pulled a small leather book from a stack of papers next to his monitor, "I've been doing a bit of light reading, and I think I've found something interesting about our self-immolating rooftop acrobat."

The agents exchanged hesitant glances and waited, apprehensively, for him to continue. Riley smirked at their trepidation.

"I'd be scared, too, if I were you." He leaned in closer. "I only hope that the Dougherty brothers are cultists or thralls. Mr. Burning-Man is very dangerous, and if there's more than one of him working together, we are in big trouble."

Agent Cavanaugh swallowed hard and loosened his collar. Agent Park licked her lips.

"I've been reading up on fire demons," Riley said, watching them carefully as he opened to a marked page and handed over the book. "I think you should have a look."

/ / /

_September 14 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

Spike left the party and stepped out onto the balcony to catch some air. Or rather, some space, from the the clingy succubus inside who couldn't take a hint. He searched his pockets for a packet of cigarettes, muttering under his breath. Had he left them in the hotel? Were they in his other pants? Someone else's pants? He turned around and peered through the window, accidently catching the eye of Kathy, or Rebecca, or whatever her name was again. She winked at him lasciviously and he turned away in disgust.

"Bloody hell, I'm not a machine."

He leaned up against the wrought-iron balustrade and glared down at the antics below. Bourbon Street was raucous as usual, the traditional fair of inebriated, bra-less women, and handsy, feckless men trying to get a squeeze. Neon signs from the bars lit the sidewalks and reflected off the brackish pools of unidentifiable liquids in the gutters. A pair of transvestites, dressed head to toe in what appeared to be cat suits made of interwoven leather straps, paraded past on the cobblestoned street, and Spike scoffed in amusement. He liked this city. It made for good show.

Alas, for business.

"She's not here," Deidra said, shutting the door behind her as she joined him on the balcony.

Spike arched a brow. "Are you sure?"

"Her energy is gone." The witch followed his gaze down to the busy street, black eyes flicking back and forth like marbles. "She's somewhere else, but they've blocked it."

"Who?"

"I don't know." The black in Deidra's eyes began to fade. She blinked twice and it was gone. "If I knew that, I'd be able to tell you where she is."

Spike sighed and bent over at the waist, arms folded atop the railing, chains clicking against the metal balusters. "Deidra, love, you're not the best, right? But you're one of the best, and I don't have time to find anyone better."

She brushed a lock of purple hair out of her face, and rolled her eyes. "You always say the nicest things."

"You're not really gonna let me call old Angelus up and tell him I don't know anything, are you?"

Deidra sucked on her lip ring, her expression bored and vaguely irritated. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Spike smiled. "I'm not sure, darlin', but that wasn't it."

He lunged and grabbed her around the throat, and with a single hand, lifted her clean off the balcony. Her feet kicked helplessly in the air, fingers clawing uselessly against his. Spike's face changed. His smile, no longer dry or amused, was warped. It grew sharper, almost jagged where his lips curled, too wide for his human face. Deidra choked on curses as tears streamed from her eyes, but she couldn't find the breath she needed to utter her spells. A dark, rumbling laugh bubbled up from Spike's chest as he swung around and pressed the backs of her knees against the iron-railing.

"Munted as they already are, I think those twats down there will still notice a dead body in the middle of the street." Spike lowered her to eye level, creepy smile widening into a maniacal grin as she choked on her own saliva. "I'm really sick of your fucking attitude. Twice you've done this to me, and twice I've let you off, but I won't make it three." He leaned in, closer, pupils dilating until his irises were just a thin sliver against the enveloping black. "You have five seconds to tell me something useful before I snap your spine in half. Understand?"

Deidra nodded furiously, cheeks growing purple, eyes watering profusely. Spike loosened his hold just enough, and waited, impassively, as she sputtered and caught her breath.

"Utter a single spell and you're be charcoal in a second," Spike threatened, coldly.

She swallowed another desperate lungful of air. "There's… another… spell."

"Haven't we just talked about spells, love?"

She shook her head weakly. "It...detects signatures."

She sucked in another lungful, and he squeezed a bit just to remind her, excited by the rapid pulse of her racing heart beneath his palm. Human life was such a fragile thing.

"It's...a long shot, but...it might work."

"Can you do it quickly?"

She shook her head, eyes wide and panicked, like a rabbit caught helplessly in the jaws of a mountain lion.

"Can you at least do it tonight?" Spike growled, and heard, more than felt, the sizzle of sweat on the back of his neck. "Because, jokes aside, I haven't got a lot of time to waste."

"Y-y-y-"

"Good." He threw her to the ground, delighted to see the ugly, red marks forming around the column of her throat. "Get to it, then."

She scrambled to her feet, clumsy and addled, barely in a state of mind to straighten her leather skirt, and dashed inside, past a crowd of amused partygoers. Spike's face shifted back into something carefully neutral, carefully composed. He dodged another beckoning glance from the insatiable succubus and whipped out his phone. His fingers flew over the screen.

"Angelus."

A velvety purr answered. "_Spikey_."

"I'm surprised I've caught you directly, to be honest."

"_I'm having a quiet night in_." A muffled shriek sounded in the background, followed by a muted snarl, and the crash of metal against stone. "_I have company_ _over_."

Spike pinched the bridge of his nose. "Marc, is it?"

"_Why, how ever did you know_?"

"I'd recognize that snarl anywhere."

Angelus laughed slowly, almost drowsily. "_Sure. Listen, you'll have to speak slowly. I just fed_."

"Well, there's not much to say," Spike hedged, toeing the concrete with his boot. "I've had a witch here in New Orleans tracing the girl's items, like you asked, trying to locate her, but we've had no luck. She's skipped town, apparently, and whoever's with her has put a blocking spell on her energy, or some bollocks. I don't know the details."

"_Brawns before brains, Spike. That's always been your calling card._" Angelus hummed darkly to himself. "_I should've known better than to send you on a reconnaissance mission alone."_

Spike watched a drunk girl in a slinky black dress catch her ankle on a jutting cobblestone and fall out of her stilettos. His lips curled.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say I was being insulted."

"_Would you?_"

"Oh, fuck off."

"_I'm sending a witch to help with the tracking." _There was another scream over the line, and Angelus laughed. "_She'll be there in the morning by portal, so hang tight." _

"What if that's not enough?"

"_Don't worry about it. I've got more than one bun in the oven_."

Spike rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that turn of phrase is a reference to pregnancy."

"_Whatver_," Angelus scoffed. "_You know what I mean."_

"Do I?"

"_Thanks for calling, Spikey. We'll be in touch_."

The line went dead.

Spike tucked his phone away and gripped the railing until it bent. Shouts carried up from the street below as a posse of drunken frat boys careened out of local bar. He watched the chaos for a few more minutes before turning to go back inside.

/ / /

* * *

_A/N: Please leave me a review! It will help keep me motivated to get the next chapter out fast!_


	15. Inner Visions

_1.22.16_

_I'm back, bitches! I promised a new chapter in January and I made my deadline with a week to spare! Woo! (This is me having a moment of personal triumph, lol, sorry.) _

_Sigh, everyone's off shipping Clexa in honor of The 100's season 3 premier, and I'm still sitting here like the Fuffy trash that I am. I just can't quit these two! No matter how many newfangled lesbian pairings emerge out of TV land, nobody can quite capture the love/hate dynamic of the Chosen Two. Is it the tragedy? The frustration? The unexplored subtext? I don't know. Maybe there's just something uniquely compelling about the struggle of Whedon's characters in the face of unrepentant evil. _

_The darkness brings us together, and it shoves us apart._

_Enjoy!_

_-Rex_

* * *

**14\. Inner Visions**

_September 18 - New Orleans, Louisiana_

Xander tugged at the collar of his shirt. He was already sweating bullets, but the humidity outside had nothing to do with it. The basement was actually rather cold, equipped with not one, not two, but three air-conditioning units to keep Willow's computers cool. Pale light glared against his skin as he peered over her shoulder at a line of code she was typing into a command window. Her wooden, semicircular desk was custom built to house all of her equipment, supporting an arc of high-resolution monitors and two backlit, wireless keyboards, one of which was resting on her lap as she deliberately tapped the keys, squinting, brow furrowed in intense thought as she tabbed down and entered another halting string of code.

"So, you made a copy?"

"Yeah," Willow reached for an errant can of Cranberry Red Bull, and threw back the last of it, "obviously I wasn't going to take her machine offsite."

Xander glanced around at the overflowing waste bin and the snack food detritus strewn across the desk. His eyes lingered on what appeared to be a recently used cot in the corner, and a pile of clothes in a plastic hamper, set aside carelessly next to the washing machine and dryer.

"Have you been living down here?"

"I had a few days off," Willow replied, by way of explanation.

"Have you been outside?"

"I can see how shitty the weather is just fine from here." She tapped a weather widget in the corner of one of her screens. "94 degrees. 95% humidity."

Xander sighed and went to fetch an extra rolling chair from a table covered in discarded gaming headsets, cough drops, and loose change. "So, this is how you live."

"Not all the time." Willow flipped a hand dismissively, eyes never leaving the screen. "That would be _unhealthy_."

"Totally." Xander rolled his eyes and pulled up next to her. "So, what did you find, and why am I here?"

Her fingers paused. She pursed her lips, deep in thought for a moment, and added a final parenthesis to her statement. "Done."

She hit the enter key and watched as strings of code flew across the screen.

"What's done?"

"I wrote an algorithm." Willow plucked a bag of dried cranberries out of a desk drawer full of wires and crammed a handful into her mouth, speaking again to Xander while chewing. "It's going to sort through Buffy's daily activities, group them into categories, and pick out the ones that are significant to me."

Xander scratched his head. "I guess I'm not sure what you're looking for."

Willow swallowed and gave him a grim look. "Right. So, I found a thing."

"A thing? What kind of thing? An oogly thing?"

"Oogly _and_ boogly," Willow replied, still deathly serious. "Check it out."

She rolled over to another monitor and pulled up a Tor browser.

"You've been on the dark web again," Xander observed, as she typed in a website URL and waited for the sluggish window to load. "Great. We are gonna get in so much trouble."

"No way," Willow scoffed. "Think positive."

"Fine. I'm positive that we are going to get in so much trouble."

Willow glared at him sidelong, but didn't get a chance to comment because just then a window filled with grainy pictures loaded up onto the screen. Xander frowned and leaned in closer. What he saw, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, a dark photo of a man with yellow eyes and oddly distorted facial features captured in the middle of a crowd, fangs flashing as he snarled at the camera. It was one of the more convincing costumes Xander had ever seen. He peered at the other details on the page. It wasn't much of a website, really just a message board filled with photographs and comments from anonymous users, dated, timestamped, and traced to various countries of origin.

At the top of the board, the subject, in bold font, read:

"**Mnstr Citings**

**Mnstrs Vsto"**

Xander squinted at the responses visible below, written mostly in broken, or shorthand English, though another language appeared frequently, sprinkled in below tiny icons of the Brazilian flag.

"Is this in Portuguese?" he asked, glancing back at the misspelled thread prompt. "Why is it written like that?"

"To avoid bots and screen scrapers." Willow scrolled down through the user posts, apparently searching for something. "The NSA and the FBI have been censoring this content from the regular web, so these guys have moved underground and are now hosting their content on Brazilian servers. It's a smart security move. As you know, the Brazilians disconnected from the American controlled internet after the NSA spying scandal."

"I...did not know that."

"Well, goodie." Willow gave him a sharp jerk of a smile. "The more you know." She stopped scrolling abruptly. "Found it."

Xander studied the photograph on the screen. "Alright, what am I looking at?"

"Us." Willow enlarged the photo.

"Is that security footage from the office?"

"Yep."

Xander blinked. "Wow. Illegal."

Willow shrugged. "I just bribed the security guard."

"Um, really illegal. What did you bribe him with?"

"Okay, blackmailed."

"Blackmailed?" Xander felt a little queasy. "Really, _really_ illegal."

"Eh."

"We're gonna be so screwed when the FBI catches up."

"Nah," Willow smirked. "He _definitely_ won't be talking to the FBI."

Xander mopped his brow on his sleeve. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Willow's answering smile was positively evil as she read through the posts, and Xander was reminded of the time that she took revenge on a pervy, unrepentant office skirt-chaser by breaking into HR's records, stealing his information, taking out credit cards in his name, and signing him up for every gay porn site she could find. The look on his face when the first package arrived on his desk had promptly been captured by a hidden webcamera, installed by none other than Willow herself, who at times still entertained herself by attaching the photo to a decoy email address and spamming his work account.

It gave Xander chills just thinking about it.

"Perfect. Look." Willow pointed at the security photo. "A few days ago, I found some footage with a clear shot of Faith's face and posted it up here to see if anyone had any information about her." She brushed a thick strand of red hair out of her face. "A couple people responded and it looks like her name really is Faith."

"Oh, nice, a kernel of truth in the popcorn bowl of lies."

"I know right? But that's not what I was gonna show you, actually. That's just gravy." Willow swiveled in her chair and began pulling up other tabs on her unoccupied monitors. "All aboard the gravy train." She giggled, and suddenly Xander was struggling to keep up with the sheer volume of pictures appearing on her screens.

There were more weird forums, not all of them in English, some filled with lengthy paragraphs of text, others filled with yet more photos. There were more shots of humanoid figures, people in strange costumes of all sizes, shapes, and colors. His eyebrows disappeared up into his hairline as he saw talons, claws, horns, and fangs scroll past. In addition to the monster freak show, there was also, for some reason, news articles from the mass shootings at UC Sunnydale, a copy of Buffy's last driver's license, and a scanned PDF of what appeared to be medical records from a hospital.

Moving on to the next monitor, Xander's eyes widened as he spied more pictures of the mysterious woman called Faith, arranged into a sloppy collage against a black background, with lime green text spelling out the word "SLAYER" in capital letters. She had been captured in a variety of poses, most of them fighting stances or candid shots, and all of them at night, never in the same location twice. In a couple shots she seemed to fighting with men and women whose faces, Xander was confused to note, had the same, strange disfigurations as the yellow-eyed man in the first photo.

"Will," he frowned, mouth hanging ajar at a picture of Faith stabbing a grey, scaly creature with a long, curved knife, "what the actual fuck is all of this shit, and what in God's name have you been doing down here."

Willow helped herself to another handful of dried cranberries, eyes fixed impassively on her keyboard. "I'm not totally sure."

Xander gestured emphatically at the Faith collage. "I mean, what's up with this? Is Buffy part of a weird monster cosplay fight club or something?" He paused and stroked his chin. "On second thought, that would make a rad movie. I'd watch it."

"You'd watch anything with a hot blonde in it," Willow wrapped a rubber band around her bag of cranberries and shoved it away again in the drawer. "Your taste is kind of singular."

"Yeah, well… Don't tell Anya."

"Don't tell your hot blonde wife that you like hot blondes?" Willow smirked and clicked on the browser window with the Faith collage, dragging it over to the center screen. "I wouldn't sweat it, Xan."

He tugged at his damp collar again. "Right."

"I've found a lot of information," Willow said seriously, "a lot of conspiracy theories about supernatural activity that the government is trying to cover up, but I'm not sure if I should believe any of it." She bit her lip uncertainly. "I mean, the internet is full of trolls and lunatics and weirdos, but there's just such a large volume of photos, and this Faith person keeps popping up everywhere. It's almost...too consistent to be fake."

Xander followed her eyes to a shot of the brunette decked out head to toe in leather, stalking between anonymous headstones, and then panned to the one next to it where she was knelt over a muscular black man in the sand on some kind of tropical beach.

"These shots are all taken in different cities," he observed.

"They're taken on different continents."

"What?" He peered closer. "How do you know?"

"The street signs," Willow pointed at a highway sign in one photo that was written in Chinese characters. "I looked this one up. It's in Shanghai."

"Jeez. What was she doing in Shanghai?"

Willow just shook her head.

"Do you think she's really a government agent?"

"The users on some of the more coherent sites kept calling her a 'slayer'."

"That's what she said to Buffy in the stairwell, right?"

"Yeah." Willow shrugged. "So, I looked it up." She turned to face Xander fully for the first time since he had sat down, the pale light from the monitor highlighting the dark circles under her eyes. "Apparently, a slayer is a woman with ancient, magical powers that fights demons and vampires in order to protect mankind."

Xander waited a moment for Willow to go on, but she appeared to be finished.

"Vampires," he deadpanned.

She nodded. "Yes."

"And… okay." He made a face. "What do I do with this information?"

Willow sighed and and chewed her lip. "Well…"

"Look," Xander rubbed his hands together and patted his knees, "if Buffy is mixed up in some freaky underground cult, you have to let the FBI handle it."

Willow glanced longingly at the monitors. "Xan…"

"No." He shook his head emphatically. "Whatever you're about to say. No. No way."

Willow hesitated. "What if… I think it could be real."

"You can't be serious."

She fixed him with a piercing stare. "There's quite a lot of evidence here."

"_Evidence_," Xander parroted dryly, with air quotes. "I mean c'mon, Will, you've seen what they can do with makeup in movies."

The redhead huffed, turned back to her computer, and instantly dragged up a whole slough of gruesome photographs, mostly pale corpses with bloodied necks and torn clothing, all with fairly obvious puncture marks. Xander made a funny, strangled noise in his throat and turned away.

"These dead people look pretty real to me."

"They could be wax dummies, I don't know." Xander grimaced and waved his hands about. "Make the dead people go away, please."

Willow heaved a derisive snort. "Whimp."

"Yeah, yeah, weak stomach, very funny." He swiveled back around, and wiped his face with the front of his t-shirt. "Let's say these sites are actually real-"

"-I mean, why else would the government be censoring this stuff on the regular web unless it was top secret?"

"Okay, okay, right." Xander slumped back in his chair, tired, exasperated, and sweaty. "So, assuming vampires are real, and Faith is a vampire slayer with magic vampire hunting powers or whatever, what are _you_, _Willow Rosenberg_, going to do about it?"

Willow frowned and pursed her lips. "I don't know."

Xander spread his arms. "I mean, obviously we're way in over our heads already."

"What would you do?"

"Me? I would let the feds handle it and try to forget about all the creepy stuff you just showed me."

Willow groaned in annoyance and leaned over her desk, limp, red hair falling across her eyes. "That's totally lame," she grumbled.

"If the Feds are censoring this stuff, they must already know about it. Can't you just assume that they've got this handled and let them do their jobs?"

"No. I don't trust them."

"Since when do you not trust the government?"

"Since… God, Xan, I don't know! Buffy's our friend!"

Xander rolled his eyes. "We'd just met her _that_ day, Will. I think that makes us acquaintances at best."

"Still, we can't just forget about her!"

"No, _you_ can't forget about her. You're fixated."

"I'm not-"

"You are, dude! You are, okay?" Xander ran his fingers through his hair. "You're obsessed."

Willow glared at him. "If there's something I can do to help, I want to do it."

Xander held her steely gaze for a full 30 seconds before finally backing down. He flopped back in his chair and sighed.

"Fine. What do you want to do, Will?"

She propped her chin up on her hands, staring at the mishmash of images on the monitors. Xander watched carefully, searching for any signs of uncertainty in her expression, but he found nothing except nervous determination. It seemed that she had been decided on her course of action before he had even ventured down into the basement.

"What do I want to do?" she murmured, repeating the phrase to herself. "I want to find Faith." She reached out and tapped the brunette's scowling face on the nearest monitor. "I think if we find her, we find Buffy."

"Okay, so how do we find her?"

Willow smiled dreamily. "I have absolutely no idea."

/ / /

_September 20 - Dallas, Texas_

Buffy woke suddenly and violently sometime before dawn, shooting bolt upright in a cold sweat, nearly smashing her forehead against the top bunk. For several, disorienting seconds, she was still trapped in her nightmare, twisting the knife in Faith's chest, gripping harder as the slayer's hot, gushing blood made the leather handle slick in her hand. Buffy clutched the wooden beams overhead with both hands and sucked down huge lungfuls of air. Her heart was pounding like a battering ram against a fortress door, and for a few, terrifying seconds, she was afraid that it might smash straight through her chest. It wasn't such a crazy fear. It seemed all too plausible. This new world had new physics, vampire physics and magic physics, even slayer physics. Anything was possible now, any sort of horrifying outcome she could think of.

She let one, shaky hand slide down to her mouth to stifle a dry sob, and then she was back in the present, sitting on her bed in the dark, listening to the crickets chirp outside over the rattle of the air conditioning unit in the hall. Buffy heaved one last herculean breath and flopped down on the mattress, exhausted.

"_That was a horrible dream_," said a soft voice, a gossamer of a whisper in the quiet room.

Buffy rolled her head to the right and saw his eyes, shining out like blue lanterns through the gloom. He was seated cross-legged beside her on the floor with his singed wings folded behind his back, rustling slightly as if moved by an ethereal breeze. He watched her intently without blinking. It was, for reasons she couldn't articulate, immensely comforting.

"That wasn't even the worst one," she croaked, combing a hand through her damp and tangled hair. "I've had nightmares that were a lot worse."

Phylax hummed. "_I know. I remember_."

Buffy knew, without needing to see, that his skin was still burned. A faint scent of charcoal and smoke hung about him, mingling sometimes with something much lighter and sweeter.

"You've probably seen worse," she guessed astutely.

"_I have, but pain is subjective. I feel yours as acutely as I would feel my own, or any other's_."

Buffy pulled the sleeves of Faith's sweatshirt down over her hands and folded her arms across her chest, ignoring the persistent throb of heat on her skin.

"Have you seen all my dreams?"

"_I have_."

Buffy blushed and sniffed. "Then you know about Jacob."

She could sense Phylax smiling at her even the dark. "_Yes_."

"He never liked me back. All the other boys liked me, but not him."

"_Isn't that why you wanted him_?"

Buffy paused. "Maybe." She blinked, fidgeting a bit with renewed distress as another thought occurred to her. "Wait, you know about Faith, too, then."

"_Yes_." Phylax reached out to touch her forehead, and a wave of cool energy pulsed outward from his fingertips like soothing peppermint, calming her feverish body. "_You think about her a lot_."

"I can't help it," Buffy murmured, eyelids slipping. "I'm so confused about her."

"_Not about her_."

His fingertips slid down her neck, coming to rest over her clavicle. Buffy groaned with relief as her sore, battered muscles uncoiled. Each pulse of cool, fuzzy, electricity relaxed her more, melting her bruises away, lowering her shields until she couldn't find it in herself to lie.

"Maybe not," she confessed, "but I'm scared. I feel like I've been scared for ages. I don't know what this means for me."

Phylax paused briefly in his ministrations, fingers lifting lightly from her skin. "_I cannot see the future_." A note of regret hung in his voice. "_I see possibilities, but there are so many that I can never be sure of the outcome_." She felt the soft pressure of his hand against hers as he pulled down the cuff of her sleeve, lacing their fingers together. "_I can't tell you what will happen_."

Buffy stroked the edge of his palm with her thumb, surprised to find it smooth. "It's okay. I only wish I knew who I was. It's like ever since I got here... no, earlier than that... Ever since graduation I've felt completely lost." She turned to gaze into his blue orbs again, seeking comfort, and assurance, and answers she knew she wouldn't find. "I don't know who I am anymore."

"_You are Buffy_."

She huffed in frustration. "That's just what teachers tell you in school so that you think you're special. It doesn't actually mean anything. "

"_It means everything_," Phylax insisted, with gentle conviction. "_You were chosen for me. Look_."

He held their hands aloft, still intertwined. Immediately, Buffy's skin began to glow. She blinked with surprise and peered closer only to find that it wasn't just her skin, but rather a series of complex, interwoven shapes glowing bright blue beneath her flesh, a spiky, curving pattern of geometric symbols whose energy emanated seemingly from within. She gasped, amazed. It was even more amazing than Valkyrie's magic. An electric buzz traveled up her arm as the markings climbed higher, luminous even under the fabric of her top. Soon, the whole room was lit and she could see his face, smiling at her, gazing upon her with such open adoration that she felt naked, stripped to her purest essence. Her chest ached with the instinctual, irrefutable understanding that she was known, through and through, her entire quantity held and cherished.

"What are those?" she asked, breathless with wonder.

"_It is our story_," he said, sounding for his part, no less awed. "_It is written here to show that I am bound to you, and have taken an oath to be your guide_."

"Oh," she murmured.

It was becoming more and more difficult to speak as her body filled with a pleasurable electricity, a molten hot buzz erupting outward from her chest, from her beating heart, to saturate her buzzing limbs. It was pleasurable to the point of distraction. She felt a surge of confidence she had never felt before. It felt like she was floating six feet off the ground.

"Does everyone have a guide like you?" she managed to ask, haltingly.

"_No, but not everyone needs a guide like me._" Phylax withdrew his hand, and Buffy gasped, shuddering as the lighting heat cooled, fading with the beautiful, swirling script back into the dark. "_You were chosen for a special task, Buffy, but the Powers That Be aren't cruel enough to send you to it alone. I am here to help you, and I will be here until the bitter end_."

"Will it be bitter?" Buffy whispered, suddenly exhausted.

"_I do not know_," he said, blue eyes glimmering, "_but I hope, for your sake, that it is not_."

Buffy felt, rather than saw, him slip away from her. She wasn't sure when her eyes had closed, but her eyelids were so heavy now that she couldn't open them. The gravity of sleep was inescapable, its hold unbreakable. She murmured an incoherent parting word before letting go, and sinking down into the dark.

/ / /

_September 21 - Dallas, Texas_

"Sauza Silver!" Faith held up two fingers in the dark to make her order clear over the noise. "Two shots!"

The bartender nodded and grabbed the glasses off the shelf behind him. She gave him a quick, bored once-over. He was a little portly around the middle of his black button-up and his beard was unkempt. He wasn't as handsome as the boy back in Boise, and even though Faith had settled for less before, she really couldn't find it in herself to be interested. He reached for the bottle and flipped it up over the shot glasses. Liquor dribbled out onto the bar as he passed them over.

Faith passed him a tenner. "Keep the change!"

"Thanks, babe!" He winked.

She rolled her eyes, because, oh, _really_? She snatched up a shot in each hand and killed them both, one after the other. The liquor burned like the most refreshing fire in the world. She slammed both glasses down and fixed him with a cold, unflinching glare.

"Two more!" she shouted, grinning maliciously as he took an involuntary step back.

Who did this fucker think he was? _Seriously_? Not even an hour ago she had punched straight through a vampire's rib cage and yanked out his cold, dead heart. There was still blood under her fingernails.

Presumptuous dickhead.

Faith turned back to the heaving dance floor and muttered something rude under her breath. She heard the clack of two more shot glasses land on the bar behind her and her eyes slipped shut for a moment.

Sure, it took a little more to get a slayer drunk, and it definitely took a lot more to keep one drunk, but the tequila was starting to help. It wasn't there so strongly anymore, the buzz of apprehension in the background, the static distorting a clean signal. Her mood was awful. Her nerves felt raw. Every little thing seemed to set her off, and she couldn't get a grip. It was a juvenile mistake to let herself get distracted. By now, she had literally been to hell and back. There was nothing left to be afraid of. This was her finest hour, her requiem, her final act. There were years of preparation behind this, thousands of hours of meditation, mental and emotional acceptance. She wasn't scared. Faith Lehane didn't _do_ scared, but maybe…

...Maybe she was a little reluctant.

Faith slugged back her shots and called for more. If she wasn't going to fuck, she was going to get _fucked up_, and she was going to do it as fast as possible.

She didn't hit the dance floor until her body was weightless.

/ / /

Buffy laid flat on her back and stared up at the golden blade of sunlight slicing through the blackout curtains. She listened intently to the birds chirping in the backyard. The room was a little stuffy, but she sensed that the air outside was getting cooler, gradually, as the finicky air-conditioning unit had gotten better at keeping up with the sticky, Texas heat. She brushed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes, ignoring the dirt under her fingernails and the stubborn bits of pale pink polish that had all but chipped away. Two weeks ago, Buffy would have rushed to the nail salon immediately, as though the most embarrassing thing in the world was having dirty, imperfect nails. Since that time she had been shot at, kidnapped, and secretly whisked away to a strange city with strange people who fought demons and used magic. She spent most of her time in sweats and leggings and oversized t-shirts. She hadn't worn a single lick of makeup since her terrifying departure from New Orleans, and really, she hadn't had the energy to care. The circumstances had changed so unbelievably fast, and yet, she could hardly remember what it had been like before. This was her life now.

Buffy sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.

Things had been simple once. She had been popular. Popular and beautiful, just like her mother, whose glamor shots had adorned the mantel in their spacious Beverly Hills home. She and Dawn had grown up comfortably in an ostentatious Californian bungalow with a $75,000 designer kitchen and the largest pool her father's stockbroking bank account could afford. He liked the glamor of luxurious things, and she understood him all too well. Buffy shared her mother's stunning looks, but she took after her father, ambitious and socially clever, comfortable in the middle of the room at the center of attention. She had fallen in effortlessly with the beautiful girls at school, elbowing her way to the top of the pyramid until she was co-captain of the cheerleading squad as just a sophomore. By then, she hadn't needed to try hard at schoolwork to stay on top. There had been plenty of boyfriends and doormat clingers to help with that sort of thing. For a girl like her, with good looks, good fashion, and good social skills, wielding power was second nature.

That had all started to change her senior year, during a messy divorce, when her father had unilaterally declared that he would rather waste away on a beach with his secretary than spend another moment at home with them. The spotlight was suddenly just a little too bright, a little too harsh for Queen Buffy. College had given her a chance to hang up her crown, riding the coattails of her then boyfriend, Jake, all the way to UC Sunnydale.

Now, she was trapped in a real life game of Dungeons and Dragons, the product of some ludacris prophecy, held captive in secret by the same people that were trying to protect her, to groom her for a mantel that she wasn't ready to accept. None of this was going to end well. She was almost guaranteed a gruesome death if Faith's low-key drinking problem was anything to by. All she really wanted to do was call her mom and hear her voice over the phone. She wasn't even allowed to do that.

Buffy groaned in frustration and shut her eyes, rubbing at her lids roughly with her hands.

No use dwelling.

A wave of homesickness washed over her, but she let the pain ebb and flow into every crevice until her equilibrium was restored, drawing on Satsu's mediation techniques to help with the anxiety. She breathed in and breathed out, and let her thoughts follow the flow of air.

She focused on the singing birds, and the rattling A/C unit, and the hum of cars driving past on the street out front. More sounds began to filter it. She heard the neighbors talking in their kitchen next door, animals rustling in the bushes, squirrels chattering at each other from the oak trees, the distant drone of a lawn mower. She listened until her ears were alive with the sounds of the world around her, until she was immersed in it, until she was sinking into the background and there was nothing left of her.

_You are Buffy. _

She blinked. There was a voice somewhere, flowing deep beneath the layers of her consciousness. She had heard it, hadn't she? In the deafening silence? Her fingers twitched against the sheets, and she listened to the dry brush of skin across linen, frowning as a new awareness hit her, suddenly, like a bolt of lightning between the eyes. She couldn't be sure that she wasn't imagining it, but...

Was her hearing a little sharper than before?

Buffy squinted up at the bunk overhead, studying the tiny, swirling details in the grain of the wooden beams. Was her vision a little sharper, too? Her chest clenched painfully.

Images floated through her mind, familiar and yet, too fuzzy to grasp. There had been a conversation with someone, she knew that much, and the color blue seemed suddenly so important. Why couldn't she articulate the reason? There were words on the tip of her tongue that wouldn't tumble free, that seemed inadequate even before they were formed. Something drastic had shifted inside her. Her energy, her body, her mind all felt different.

She felt different.

The sound of a body stirring overhead startled her out of her thoughts. Buffy's eyes widened. Satsu had actually used her bunk. She had heard her breathing, she realized. She had heard the quiet rhythm without knowing what it was or how to place it against the din from outside. It made sense now.

"Satsu!" she hissed, waiting and listening for a moment before trying again. "Satsu! Are you awake?"

"Mmph," the sleepy voice replied. "Wha's it?"

Buffy sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. "What time did you come in last night?"

"Mmm…" Satsu was quiet for a moment. Buffy was beginning to suspect she had fallen back asleep when she finally answered quietly, "one, maybe."

Buffy did some quick mental calculations. "Did you hear me talking to anyone?"

The sound of rustling sheets carried down from overhead. "No. Mm...you tossed n'turned a lot, though." She yawned. "Why?"

What a tricky question to try and answer without sounding like a crazy person. Why? Why was Buffy's head filled with a vision of glowing blue surging up her arms? She rubbed her forehead roughly, confused and on edge. She felt along her shoulders for the bruises that should have been there, planted by Satsu's fists a day earlier during jujutsu training, but they were gone. Her whole body felt rested. Nothing seemed to ache. Nothing was sore. She was refreshed even. It was uncanny. She couldn't shake the feeling that the blue light...no, blue eyes? had something to do with that.

"I think I talk in my sleep," she said, in a quiet monotone.

"Oh," came the weary reply.

Seconds later, the sound of steady breathing alerted her that Satsu had fallen back asleep, but Buffy couldn't sit still.

She was itchy.

Restless, and filled with directionless impatience, she rose and began to rummage around for her training clothes. She was looking forward to her morning run with Faith for once. As soon as she stepped out of the dark room, however, a curious shape caught her eye. She stared down, gaze apprehensive, feeling suddenly a lot closer to the brink of insanity than before.

Tattooed in royal blue ink on the palm of her hand was a simple, hollow triangle. In the center of the triangle was a symbol, a letter written in a flourishing script she didn't recognize.

Buffy swallowed and balled her hand into a fist, flexing hard, counting slowly to ten in her head.

When she opened it again, the mark was still there.

/ / /

Buffy sat at the dining room table, quietly eating a container of yogurt while, across from her, Giles poured frantically over a thick, moldy book.

"Most irregular…" he kept muttering to himself, stopping every so often to scribble in his notebook before turning the page. "Most irregular, indeed."

He was a mess, roused hastily from a dead slumber by Buffy herself, hyperventilating as she tried not to cry. She had, of course, cried anyway. There was some consolation, at least, in that the watcher seemed to be just as concerned by the appearance of her mysterious new tattoo as she was, which was a terrifying revelation in and of itself. It was one thing for the clueless blonde bimbo from Southern California to freak out about magic tattoos, and another entirely for a seasoned demon hunter and scholar of the supernatural to do the same.

That he hadn't seen this sort of thing before was alarming.

His hair and glasses were askew, navy blue bathrobe tugged on as an afterthought over his undershirt and boxers. He was wearing one sock, and seemed not to notice, entirely unconcerned with anything that wasn't on the page in front of him.

"Are you sure we shouldn't wake Faith or Satsu?" Buffy asked, warily. "Maybe one of them could help."

The watcher didn't even pause in his reading. "Faith only got in an hour ago."

"What? An hour ago?" Buffy paused to digest this. "Wait, she went out?"

"Yes. I suggest we let her sleep."

Buffy glanced down into her half empty strawberry yogurt, and back up again at Giles. "What about Satsu?"

He waved her off, preoccupied with something in his book. "This is so irregular. I've never seen that symbol before, but I swear I-"

"Um, Giles-"

"-Hold up your hand again, Buffy."

She obliged him without question and he scrutinized it intently, eyes darting back and forth, glasses threatening to slide straight off his greasy nose. After a few moments he reached into his pocket, withdrew his cell phone, and snapped a picture. Buffy stared at him, but he returned to the book without comment.

"What's going on?" she asked, finally, but he didn't answer her. "Giles. Giles, what's going on? What does this symbol mean?"

The watcher groaned irritably. He ripped off his glasses and put his hands over his face, fingertips rubbing slow circles into his eye sockets.

"I don't know."

Buffy waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't say anything further. "You don't know?" she prodded. "Is that bad?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe we _should _wake Satsu."

The sudden ding of a quiet alarm drew both their attention to the surveillance monitors mounted on the wall. A tall, dark figure was approaching the front porch from the street, and it wasn't alone. Giles' posture stiffened. He looked down at himself, seemingly aware of his state for the first time all morning.

"Bloody hell," he said, quickly.

They turned their heads in unison as a loud knock sounded from the front door. The security system performed a quick and the word "HUMAN" flashed on the bottom screen.

"Not now," he murmured, rising to answer.

Discarding her yogurt, Buffy slid out of her chair and hurried to follow him into the foyer. Giles undid the heavy duty locks that Faith had installed for extra security and disabled the silent alarm. When he had finally grasped the handle and pulled it open, it was Valkyrie standing on the other side in a figure-hugging black dress and red heels. Next to her, standing nearly an entire head shorter, was a woman with similarly dark skin and a close-shaved head, wearing a red and black motocross jacket and matching Air Jordans. She smacked her gum as she gave Buffy a slow once-over.

"Good morning," Giles said amicably, British manners kicking in despite his all too obvious state of frantic distress.

Valkyrie shouldered past them both, heels drilling into the floorboards as she crossed the threshold. The other woman followed her in, dark eyes sweeping the room. He quickly shut the door behind them.

"The energy readings on this site are off the charts," Valkyrie accused, without preamble. "What the fuck did you do here last night? Open a portal?"

"I'm flattered," Giles hastily synched up the front of his robe, "but you know I'm not powerful enough to do magic like that."

"Did you get another witch?"

"No, of course not."

"Then we've got a problem."

"Yes, I know. Who's this?"

"My sister, Taija." Valkyrie's eyes slid to the woman in question, who was currently examining Faith's security monitors over the dining room table.

"This shit's cool," Taija murmured. She glanced at them out of the corner of her eye. "Hey, y'all."

"Buffy and Rupert," Valkyrie said quickly. "You can guess who's who."

Taija nodded sharply and went back to studying Faith's electronics.

"Something's happened," Giles said, moving hastily toward the kitchen, "and I'll tell you everything we know so far. Can I get you any coffee? Tea?"

"Oh, tea!" Taija exclaimed. Buffy and Giles both turned to look at her with surprise, and her earnest expression melted away into one of defiance. "What? Earl Grey is the fucking shit. Fucking sue me."

"No, no," the watcher murmured. "You are quite right." He turned to Buffy with flickering eyes, though his face had been carefully ironed into flat neutrality. "Would you wake the others for me, please?"

"No need, Giles." Satsu emerged from the hallway in pink leggings and an oversized black t-shirt, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "I'm up."

The watcher nodded. "Just Faith, then, Buffy. If you please." He turned to Satsu quickly. "Would you fix us some tea, please? Earl Grey?"

Satsu nodded and went to fulfill his request while Buffy padded down the hall to Faith's bedroom. Voices carried in from the kitchen, and despite the echo, and the thick walls, she could hear every word. She paused on a creaky floorboard (had it always creaked so loudly?) and listened as the watcher began to recount everything she had told him to an irate, and rightfully concerned Valkyrie. Buffy's fingers floated along the wall, nails scraping the sharp little goosebumps in the paint. The sound of cracking filtered into her ears and Buffy turned her head swiftly, noting that she had accidentally left grooves, like jagged little trails, behind her. She frowned, hand dropping to her side, and made her way down to Faith's bedroom door. She rapped sharply three times and listened for movement within.

She didn't even have to press her ear against the wood.

"-will have broken through the barriers!" Valkyrie's angry voice filtered in from the other room. "You are in danger of-"

Buffy blocked her out again.

Putting her hand on the old door knob, Buffy pressed her shoulder against the sticky door and pushed until it gave way, swinging into the dark room with a loud creak. The sudden shift didn't throw her off balance as it might've normally done. She didn't so much as stumble. Instead, Buffy gawked dumbly at the sight that greeted her.

The room was completely trashed.

This was a feat in and of itself, because Faith didn't seem to own very much, and yet somehow she had managed to do quite a lot with very little. Her dark clothes were strewn everywhere, hanging off the bed and the nightstand and even the lamp. There were cigarette boxes and empty bottles and wooden stakes all over the floor, some gathered haphazardly in a pile, as though Faith's backpack had been shaken out. In the center of the whole mess, with a bent photograph clutched loosely in one hand, was the slayer herself, belt and pants undone, passed out face first on the hardwood in a pile of detritus.

Buffy's heart thumped.

She stepped swiftly into the room and closed the door behind her. Faith's face was turned away. All she could see were the dark, wild curls spilling out around her head like a broken halo. Her jacket was spread open on one side, and her boots were still on. Buffy bent down, peering with surprising sharpness through the gloom and rested her hand on the slayer's calf. The acrid, sour stench of alcohol washed over her, tequila, probably. She wrinkled her nose.

"Faith."

She shook the slayer's leg gently, but received no response. Huffing, she crawled up so that she was level with the brunette's hips and reached out to lay a hand on her back. She paused. Another mixture of familiar scents overwhelmed her, spicy cedar and sharp citrus, earthy leather and stale sweat, bitter smoke and tangy, copper blood. Without thinking, without really meaning to, Buffy leaned in closer and inhaled deeply. Her eyelids fluttered, warmth blossoming under her ribs like a hot spring and flowing outward. The tips of her fingers began to throb. She brushed Faith's wild hair away from her sleeping face, letting her hands settle gently on the back of her newly exposed neck. Her thumb traced soft skin, and she thought of all the ways that this was creepy and invasive. Buffy didn't care.

"Mmmm…" Faith twitched, and low, silky moan, like honey and gravel and the softest satin sheets, rumbled up from her chest.

The sound made Buffy _ache_.

"That feels good," the slayer murmured, motionless except for her chapped lips. "Don't stop."

Oh. Fuck. Oh _fuck_. Buffy's throat bobbed, and her mouth was suddenly very, very dry. She could still hear Valkyrie and Giles arguing in the kitchen, but she really didn't care. She was doing everything in her power to tune them out, to focus on the slayer's pulse, throbbing beneath the pads of her careful fingers. Buffy licked her lips and leaned closer, and it was that sound, that imperceptible shifting of weight, that drew Faith's attention.

Her eyes flicked open, and she stared straight ahead for a moment before lifting her head and turning to face Buffy, blinking away her confusion.

"Oh, um…" Buffy hastily removed her hand. "Giles needs you."

Faith stared up at her with a slack jaw and blurry, haunted eyes, brows knit together in confusion. "I thought you were someone else," she rasped.

"Just me." Buffy's gaze wavered to her lips and back, mouth opening slightly to breathe more air, to take in more oxygen, to take in more of the slayer's scent. "...Sorry."

Faith groaned and rolled onto her back, cardboard and wrappers crinkling underneath her as she moved. Her hands came up to her face, scrubbing anemically at her already horrifically smeared mascara. She looked like a racoon with two black eyes, but it only made her toffee brown irises more striking. It was charming in the way that accidents sometimes are, endearing in a moment of clumsiness and imperfection. Buffy followed the curve of her narrow hips, pausing studiously over Faith's pale abdomen, exposed by the flimsy tank top that had ripped in two places and ridden up during her nap on the floor. The slayer stretched her arms over her head, leather jacket creaking, and curled the photo tighter into her hand before stuffing it into one of the pockets.

"What time is it?" Faith croaked, tugging lazily on the roots of her hair.

"A little after eight."

"Mother of fuck." She grit her teeth, eyes closed tight against even the paltry amount of light sifting past the blackout curtains. "Giles needs me _now_?"

"Well…" Buffy opened her palm and glanced down at her new tattoo, inked like a curse into her creased skin. "Yeah." She winced. "It's sort of an emergency. Sorry.."

"S'okay." Brown eyes fluttered open and blinked up at her. "Did anyone else see me like this?"

"No."

"Sweet. Let's keep it between us." Faith closed her eyes again and groaned. "I need three aspirin and a water, B. Help a homie out?"

Buffy snorted. She was pretty sure that no one had called her a 'homie' since middle school, but she shook herself mentally and climbed to her feet, immediately picking out the vial of pills on Faith's nightstand. She found an unopened bottle of Gatorade as well, and returned with both.

"You're a saint."

Buffy knelt down and watched as Faith poured out a ridiculous number of pills into her palm.

"Get trashed often?" she asked, trying to sound wry and disinterested, and instead sounding a bit too anxious.

Faith responded by choking out an empty, humorless laugh, heaving erratically from her chest. "Yeah. And sometimes I drink, too."

Well.

"I gotta change outta these clothes."

Taking that as her cue to leave, Buffy rocked back on her heels and started to move for the door.

"Wait-" a hand shot out and grasped her ankle. "Wait. I need help."

Buffy swallowed hard as her palms began to sweat. "I'll get Satsu."

"No, jesus, just-" Faith dragged herself into a sitting position, creaking and cracking as though every one of her bones were snapping back into place. "Just toss me a sweatshirt or something."

Buffy glanced around helplessly at the mess on the floor. "Where-"

"On the nightstand."

She retrieved the grey sweatshirt and handed it to Faith, who winced as she tugged her leather jacket off her shoulders. The emergence of a blotchy, softball sized bruise on her deltoid made it abundantly clear to Buffy why this task was difficult. The blonde paled and averted her eyes. It was hard to look at Faith sometimes, and there were so many convoluted reasons for it, all twisted up together like thorny vines that pricked Buffy's fingers when she tried to pull them apart. She gazed at Faith's mottled skin and marveled at how much it felt like gazing into a crystal ball, like gazing into the future, her future, a future of pain and suffering and solipsistic despair, fighting the tides of evil in secret while the world rushed on around her, a rock parting the river. How long until she was here again? How long until it was her passed out on the floor, hungover and covered in bruises? A lump hardened in her throat.

This was what Satsu had meant by acceptance.

"You won't always have weapons with you," she had said, training Buffy in the backyard just three days earlier. "You'll have to mold your own body into a weapon."

Satsu's fingers had been balled into sturdy fists, pounding hard, repeatedly on each of her toes in turn as Buffy struggled to keep pace. Her own soft, untrained digits had been red and inflamed. She had clenched her teeth with each strike to her own feet and tried not to whimper aloud.

"Before each session we'll meditate like we did today by picturing the flame in the empty room and clearing our minds. Then we'll do these joint strengthening exercises until your bones are hard enough to damage your enemies in hand to hand combat." Stoic, focused like a laser on her movements, Satsu had switched her other foot, bouncing her knuckles hard off her bare toes. "Eventually, you'll have to learn other combat styles. Faith actually likes to mix and match hers because she can never remember the proper routines, but anyway, karate is a good place to start."

"Shouldn't I be learning how to fight with stakes?" Buffy had asked, sweaty and exhausted, more than a little grumpy after her morning workout.

Satsu had simply shaken her head and continued, unflinching, with the pounding motions. "Not until you can wield the stake as an extension of yourself. The stake is not the weapon, Buffy," Satsu had glanced up, then, fixing her with a dark stare, "_you_ are."

Faith flinched and gasped as Buffy's fingers traced the edges of her bruise. She wasn't sure when she had reached out, but it felt good to gather the stickiness of Faith's skin on the pads of her fingers, sweat and smoke and the reek of metabolized booze. She tripped over the ridges of old scars and wondered why the slayer healing hadn't smoothed them over, why they remained, like notches in an old sword. She withdrew her touch from the darkest, blackest center of the bruise when the muscles beneath her palm twitched with pain. She was starting to understand what it meant. She was starting to understand her future.

Slayers were weapons, and weapons were tools.

Buffy looked up and found Faith peering back at her, curious and surprised. The air in the room thickened. The distance between them seemed to shrink until it wasn't enough, until it was too much.

"Valkyrie in the kitchen," Faith muttered, struggling to break the tension, "and they're talking about you."

Buffy's eyes flicked to her lips for just a second, but she caught herself quickly, clearing her throat conspicuously as she straightened up. She tilted her head to side and focused her hearing again. The sounds in the house washed over her, and for a moment she allowed her mind to the flow out with the tide. Goosebumps pebbled on her skin.

"They are…" she murmured, thoughtfully.

Faith gave her a weird look. "Can you hear what they're saying?"

"Most of it."

"Has your hearing always been this good?"

Buffy hesitated, frowning lightly. "Not exactly."

Faith paled further and brushed the hair out of her face. "I think I need clean clothes for this." She looked down at her pants. "These have blood on them."

When Buffy squinted and found only faint evidence of the stains Faith was referring to, she suddenly understood why the slayer owned so much black. She rocked to her feet and helped Faith off the floor, maneuvering her over to the bed where she could rest for a moment. Buffy yanked some fresh sweats and a shirt out of the haphazardly organized cubbies in the closet. She helped Faith unlace her boots and pulled them off, shutting her eyes quickly as the slayer began to shuck off her jeans.

'Warn me next time, please," Buffy said, a bit shrilly.

"So you can pretend you don't like it?"

She blushed three shades of crimson and whirled around, stubbornly facing the wall. "That's not what I meant."

"Aw, B, don't be like that." Faith snickered. "I need your help with my shirt."

"If I turn around and you're completely naked-"

"-I mean, I need your help with my bra, too, so-"

"-I'm getting Satsu."

"Wait, B!" A hand caught her wrist. "Wait, wait, wait."

Buffy rolled her eyes as turned around, relieved to see that Faith had managed to get her sweats on by herself. "Do you want me to see you naked that bad?"

"Don't _you_?"

Buffy huffed angrily and opened her mouth to argue, but Faith frowned and cut her off quickly. "Only joking, babe. Calm your tits."

"Oh, my god. Stop."

"I just don't get why it's such a big deal."

"It's not."

"Oh, really? Because you seem pretty touchy about it."

"No, it's fucking _not_!"

"Whoa, B!" Faith leaned back on her elbows and laughed, raspy and low in that way that made Buffy's stomach lurch. "Chill."

Buffy cocked her head to the side, eying the slayer shrewdly as a thought occurred to her. "Wait. I think I know what this is about. You don't want Satsu to know you were out drinking."

"That's not what I-"

"-Isn't it?"

"No."

"So, why-"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Buffy! Will you just help me put on a motherfucking shirt so we can go talk to everyone? Why are you being such a prude about this?"

They glared each other down for a moment, chests heaving. Finally, Buffy sniffed and moved forward, reaching for Faith's sleeve.

"Fine. I'll help, but you don't have to be a bitch about it."

Faith started to roll her eyes, and stopped abruptly. "Hey, what's on your hand?"

"You'll find out in a minute. Lift your arms."

"Ouch! Fuck, B! Watch the bruise!"

"Um, I think you mean _bruises_." Buffy gaped in horror at the sickly pallet of greens, yellows, reds, and purples splashed across Faith's back. "Oh, my god."

"They'll be gone by tomorrow." Faith hissed through her teeth as Buffy gently undid the clasp of her bra. "Hopefully."

"Where the hell did you go last night?" Buffy pushed the straps off her shoulders brusquely. "It looks like you picked a fight with the whole bar and lost."

Her fingers brushed Faith's skin and the slayer shuddered.

"I was scoping out the neighborhood." She shrugged and immediately winced. "Found some vamps lurking by the hospital trolling for easy prey and one of them got the drop on me."

"Got the drop?"

"Literally. From the roof."

Buffy made a silent 'Oh' with her mouth and helped Faith into a fresh, white shirt. Together, they pulled the grey sweatshirt over her head, taking time to fit the slayer's sore arm carefully through the sleeve. Faith swept her wild hair off her neck and tied it up into a messy bun while Buffy cleaned the mascara disaster off her face with some wet wipes, the same ones which, Faith assured her, were normally reserved for dried blood and other bodily fluids. By the time they emerged in the kitchen, Faith looked somewhat presentable, as though she were freshly woken from a normal night of poor rest.

_Like a college student_, Buffy mused furtively, and then turned away with warm cheeks. An image of Faith, clean of makeup and grit, passed out on a pile of books, rose unbidden into her mind.

Ugh.

Buffy wanted to roll her eyes at _herself_.

The others were seated around the dining room table, drinking mugs of tea and generally looking very tense. Even Taija, who seemed only marginally interested in the subject at hand, was picking nervously at her neon yellow nail polish.

"We have a problem," Giles said, gravely, as soon as he saw them.

He briefly explained the sudden, mysterious appearance of the triangular symbol on Buffy's palm, and asked her show it around one more time. She let Faith grab her hand and study it closely, then walked to the table to let Satsu, Taija, and Valkyrie get a good look. He let Faith ask all the questions that had already been answered. No, they didn't know where it had come from. No, they didn't know what it meant. No, Buffy couldn't remember anything of value, except for a odd dream of glowing blue lights climbing up her arms. No they didn't have any leads.

"I can only assume that this is somehow related to the prophecy, though I would feel a lot more comfortable asserting that claim with real evidence to back it up." He leaned back stiffly in his chair, shoulders sagging. "In the meantime, Valkyrie tells me that there was a surge of elemental magic in this house last night, and it momentarily obliterated the shields she erected last week."

Faith sat down hard on the coffee table in the living room. "Shit."

"Quite."

"That means-"

"-Yes."

"Fuck, G. We're not ready." Faith glanced over at Buffy, who was still standing aimlessly in the middle of the room. "_She's_ not ready."

"I'm aware of that, but we don't have much choice. We've already been compromised."

"She's. Not. Ready."

"I know that. I'm telling you that we don't have a choice."

"You haven't talked to them, have you?"

"Not yet."

"G, you can't be serious."

"I don't like it any more than you do, but we're running out of options."

"We can't trust them!"

Buffy clenched her hands into fists. "Would someone _please_ explain to the new girl what we're talking about in class today?" She flipped her hair and flashed the room with a sharp, ditzy smile, the same one she had once used to mock the freshman cheerleaders before sending them to run laps. "I missed the last couple _spookology_ courses, and I'm just a little behind."

Five pairs of eyes blinked back at her, and Buffy's confidence faltered. Had she laid it on a little too thick?

"Beg you pardon, Buffy." Giles cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "What I was implying moments earlier is that our location, more specifically _your_ location, may have been compromised."

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. "So, what you're saying is, something dark and evil found our secret hideout."

"In so many words, yes, it's a very strong possibility."

Buffy continued to nod absently for a moment, lips pursed, before shrugging and going to plop down on the sofa. "If I'm going to die soon I want to call my mom first."

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nobody's going to die."

"Hell," Valkyrie's answering laugh was humorless, "somebody jus' might."

"We've defeated hell gods." Faith crossed her arms. "This can't be that much worse."

"Oh, it definitely can, because this time it's not about you flying under the radar or fighting with a coalition of _trained _allies, it's about making sure you don't outlive your defenseless, civilian replacement."

The slayer's eye twitched, but she sulked and said nothing.

"I'm not totally defenseless," Buffy grumbled.

"What're you gonna do?" Faith snapped. "Meditate the vampires to death?"

"Fuck you."

"She knows a few blocks," Satsu offered, half-heartedly.

"Great, Buffy can throw blocks and find her center. Let's go take on Angel."

Satsu sighed. Buffy scowled and curled further into the couch.

"This," Valkyrie said, gesturing at Faith with a long, manicured finger, "whatever _this_ is, is not helping. So, quit it with your attitude and don't speak again unless you've got something useful to say."

Faith sneered, but said nothing, and the room fell silent for a long, awkward minute. Satsu sipped cautiously from her mug of tea. Taija continued to fiddle with her nail polish. Giles frowned into one of many, crumbly books opened on the dining room table.

"G…" Faith's voice sounded even rougher than usual as she spoke into the silence. "If we tell the Council about her, Travers will try to kill me."

Her comment sucked all the air out of the room. Faith had taken down the pink elephant in the corner with a single shot, and now Giles looked even more uncomfortable. He smoothed his fingers along the page of his book, Adam's apple bobbing. He had hunched so far into himself that he now looked small and old in the stiff-backed wooden chair. Buffy understood intuitively how he felt. Some choices were too hard to make.

"We can't keep her safe on our own," he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "We don't have the resources or the manpower to fend off an attack." He looked up at his slayer, bloodshot eyes glistening subtly behind his spectacles. "And what if they kill you both? What if they capture you and hold you prisoner? Then the world will have no slayer."

"But, G-"

"You've already been exposed," Valkyrie added, firmly. "Elemental magic is rare and powerful. If I noticed it, so have other eyes. The Council watches these sorts of things. They'll know that something is going down, and it's only a matter of time before they find you."

"But we can't trust Travers!" Faith turned to Giles with pleading eyes. "Please! You know what he's capable of. He won't think twice about slitting my throat if it gets him a shiny new super slayer."

"That might be a risk we have to take," the watcher said in a brittle monotone, and Buffy could see that he was absolutely shredded over it.

She swallowed hard and stared down at her knees. Weapons were replaceable, but she didn't want to be Faith's replacement. Her nails dug into her thighs until her her fingers were shaking. She couldn't live with herself if she was just Faith's replacement.

"Why don't we just run again?" Her voice rang out into the quiet room, and she was almost surprised at its strength. She wasn't sure when she had gotten it back. "Why don't we just find somewhere else to hide?" she continued, looking around to meet their eyes. "We could go somewhere remote. Like Wyoming, where we're less likely to be followed."

Faith gazed back at her with gratitude flickering in her tired eyes. "Yeah, B's got the right idea." She sniffed and glanced across to her watcher. "We could buy you a little more time to research, G. And we could train her some more."

"I'm not convinced that running would be a good strategic move."

"But just think, if we left now we could get outta town before they close in on us-"

"Hey, fam, we got company!" Taija jumped up out of her chair, boots thumping against the hardwood floor, and peered at the security monitors. "There's a black suv out front."

Startled, Buffy swiftly stood from the couch and looked over to see that Faith was already running for her bedroom. Buffy swallowed hard. Apparently they took everything seriously in this world. Her chest clenched painfully as she moved to get a look at the monitors. Sure enough, there was a black Ford Explorer parked along the street, blocking their driveway. The plates were also obscured from view at their current angle. Faith returned with an armful of weapons and passed a sheathed katana across the table to Satsu. Giles grabbed a machete and Buffy followed suit, gripping the hilt of a short broadsword unsteadily in her hand. The adrenaline was already messing with her coordination. She could hear the slam of car doors acutely, and the click of footsteps on pavement as two men emerged from the suv dressed in black suits sunglasses. They approached the front walk with practiced nonchalance.

"We got creeps," Taija hissed.

She reached inside her jacket with both hands and whipped out a pair of small, semi-automatic weapons. They clicked sharply as she undid the safeties, each movement graceful and fluid. Buffy's eyes widened as she took them in. She had some general knowledge of guns, having dated a guy in the ROTC program back in college, and these were clearly uzis, though they had obviously been modified. They were shiny and appeared to be silver plated in all but a few parts. The magazines had also been extended, almost comically, and Taija had added attachments to the barrels that looked suspiciously like silencers, though Buffy couldn't be sure. She wasn't sure what good it would do to silence an uzi.

Taija caught her staring and winked. "These guns big enough for ya, boo?"

Buffy smirked. No wonder she wore the chunky motocross jacket around.

"They shoot silver bullets, too. I call 'em my vampire shredders."

"Whoa!" Faith wolf-whistled as she leaned over to examine them. "Those are fucking hot! How effective are they?"

"If your aim is good?" Taija pursed her lips, considering it. "You could neutralize a mature, adult vamp in less than 30 seconds."

Satsu rolled her eyes. "You guys sound like you're talking about hunting gorillas."

"Quiet please!" Giles held out a hand and the room fell silent, thick tension immediately pressing in around them again.

They watched with baited breath as the two men approached the house on the monitor. Their feet thumped against the steps outside as they climbed the porch, and Buffy could see now that one of them had bright red hair.

A stiff knock sounded at the door, and they all flinched. Faith licked her lips. Satsu angled her katana. The security system scanned the visitors' vitals quickly.

"HUMAN" blinked on the screen.

Giles hesitated. Tucking his machete behind his back in the waistband of his bathrobe, he motioned to the others to hide. They all scrambled for cover. Buffy crouched behind the far end of the couch. Faith ducked behind a corner with Satsu, twin swords drawn. Taija and Valkyrie slipped into the kitchen. Satisfied, Buffy watched with a knot in her stomach and her heart pounding in her ears as he moved the answer the door.

The handle clicked, and a blast of humid air spilled into the room.

"Good morning, sir!" said a cheerful, confident voice. "I'm Agent Finn and this is Agent Drake. We're here with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. So, sorry to bother you this early, but we just have a couple questions about a missing persons case. We're hoping you can help us out."

"Let me see your badge," Giles said tersely.

The agent chuckled. "Of course, sir."

Buffy peaked around the couch, briefly catching Faith's heated gaze across the room, before dragging her eyes away to watch the scene at the door. She could only see the agent's arm from her perch, holding out a small, leather case. The watcher snatched the offered badge away and scrutinized it closely, adjusting his spectacles as he peered down at it. He tapped his fingernail against the metal, listened to it click with a scowl, and handed it back reluctantly.

"Very well."

"May we come in?" the agent asked politely.

Giles regarded them skeptically for a moment, face harder than Buffy had ever seen it. "What's the code, then?"

"Oxford," the agent replied confidently, and Buffy watched with keen interest as Giles dropped his defensive stance, moving aside to beckon the agents inside.

"Hurry, please," he said. "We're under a dire threat at the moment. Everyone," he turned to address the room, "please come out."

One by one, they emerged into the living room. Giles closed and latched the door behind him, turning to examine the two agents fully. Satsu sheathed her sword and pulled Faith out of the shadows behind her. Valkyrie and Taija emerged from the kitchen, shiny silver uzis noticeably absent. The agents greeted all of them quietly as Giles set his machete aside on the kitchen table and mumbled something about going to put on another pot of tea.

Buffy was the last to emerge.

"Ah!" The taller agent spotted her immediately, whipping off his aviators to reveal a handsome face with a warm, boyish charm. "You must be Buffy!" He strode forward and extended his hand. "Or Ms. Summers?"

"Buffy's fine." She leaned the broadsword up against the arm of the couch and took his hand, noting with surprise how easily it engulfed her own. "Thanks."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he said, keenly, a sharp smile tugging at his lips. "I've heard _so_ much about you."

Buffy met his unflinching gaze and swallowed hard.

Ugh.

/ / /

* * *

_A/N: Please remember to leave a review! A review a day keeps the writer's block at bay!_

_Shout out to SixPerfections for all the kind words. This one's for you, baby!_


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